The Clerkenwell Tales by Peter Ackroyd (good short books .txt) 📕

“All is altered upside down,” the sergeant-at-law said. “A man may not stop evil air.” Vavasour was prone to timor anxius, the daughter of melancholy; he had a vivid fantasy and saw manifold images of possible harm. That was why he was a good lawyer: he envisaged all manner of difficulties, and resolved them in advance. But, when they touched his own life, he was helpless. “He has seen us,” he said, “and divined our purpose.”

“Pause a moment, Sir Miles, and recover yourself.” William Exmewe was cautious; like all men who love power, he was deliberate and watchful, subjugating his feelings to the matter in hand. “Who has seen us?”

“The doctor of physic. Gunter. He saw us coming to the round tower. He knows of the five circles. He knows of Dominus. He will rumble over our heads!”

“He is not of the number of Dominus. How may he know of our purpose, if he is not one of us?”

“How can I tell? In the whirling of the world, I do not know what to think or what to do.”

Exmewe pondered. Had the physician traced the connection between Dominus and the predestined men? Had the sergeant given the physician a list of the five churches? “Tell me the remnant of your thoughts, Miles.”

“What?”

“You have not given all. You have left something behind.”

What the sergeant had not disclosed, of course, was his weakness in Turnmill Street. “I have nothing more to speak. I have knit up the matter, as far as my poor wit allows.”

He looked away as he said this. Exmewe did not believe him and, from that moment, considered the sergeant’s death. “Listen, Miles, I will instruct you in the way you must go. Shadow yourself for a while. Be silent. I will visit this Gunter.”

“It makes no matter which saying we use in manner of a threat. Not all the words in the world –”

“Who said a saying? Mark well, Miles. ‘Timor domini sanctus.’ The fear of God is holy.”

“I would be glad to deal with him, William, but the man is of so diverse mind that there is no hold at him.”

“Hush. Go in peace. I will never disclose your coming. God save you.” Exmewe watched Miles Vavasour as he left the chapter-house. Then he looked up at the palm-tree vault, and admired its beauty. “I am sure, friend Vavasour,” he said out loud, “that these are your last days.”

Chapter Nineteen

The Pardoner’s Tale

On the corner of Wood Street and Cheapside there grew an ancient oak tree known as the Canute Tree. Small charms were hung upon it, both to placate the tree itself and to bless its benefactors with the gift of old age. The London birds loved this tree and would cluster among its branches; they were safe here because no child would stone them or trap them, not even with nooses of horsehair in the winter snow. It was popularly believed that the birds sang in Latin and in Greek, and that their songs lasted no longer than the saying of an Ave Maria.17

A few yards from this tree stood the pardoner of St. Anthony’s Hospital, Umbald of Arderne; he was also known as a quaestor or public inquirer, but his principal role was to sell papal pardons or indulgences for money. The indulgence was a remittance of punishment in the fires of purgatory, and was therefore much prized. He also carried with him relics for sale, as well as phials of holy water and cures for various ailments; he was a true merchant of the Church.

Although he had not visited a shrine for many years, he always wore the garment of a pilgrim. He stood beneath the tree in a shaggy woollen robe, decorated with small wooden crosses; over his hood he wore a large round felt hat, upon the brim of which were tied phials of holy oil, scallop shells, the lead tokens or badges of various holy sites, and a miniature representation of the keys of Rome. He clutched a staff tipped with iron, with a red cloth wound about it, and he carried a bag and bowl by his side. The bag held his “patent” for trade in the area, as well as a testimonial from St. Anthony’s Hospital that he was licensed to work on its behalf. There were small bells fixed to his hood, which jingled as he cried out on the corner of the street. “You may see by the signs on my hat that I know Rome and Jerusalem, Canterbury and Compostela. O Jerusalem! Jerusalem! I have seen the place where Our Lord was scourged. It is known as the Shadow of God. And there beside it are four pillars of stone that always drop water, and some men say that they weep for Our Lord’s death. In the place called Golgotha was found Adam’s head after Noah’s flood, a token that the sins of Adam should be bought in that same place. I have seen the tomb where Joseph of Arimathea laid the body of Our Lord when he had taken him down from the Cross, and men say that it is the middle of the world. Nearby is a well that comes from the river of Paradise. O Jerusalem! All those who cannot weep can learn from me! Our old world is now at his last ending, as in his last age.”

It was the thirtieth day of September, the morrow of St. Michael the Archangel; Londoners had already heard that Henry Bolingbroke had visited Richard in the Tower and had there compelled him to abdicate his throne. One party asserted that he had been forced with threat of torture or of death to forfeit sovereignty; another party declared that he had done so willingly to spare his country further blood and war. Whatever the circumstances, Umbald of Arderne was determined to take advantage of the unsettled time. “God does not sleep,” he called out. “When the hills smoke, then