The Clerkenwell Tales, Peter Ackroyd [sight word readers txt] 📗

tied and watched. “Be comfortable, Robert. God will be with you.” He observed the manciple carefully. “Are you comfortable?”

“Is the moon made of calves’ skin?”

“This is a hard matter.”

“As hard as adamant.”

“But it can be softened somewhat.”

“Signifying?”

“What is done can be undone. If the shoe does not fit, it can be slipped off.” Exmewe had baited the trap, and now stepped back.

“Whoever can relieve me of this burden is my good friend.” Rafu stopped in the street. “If my fate is ordained then I will suffer it, but I can serve the faith in many other ways.” He spoke more eagerly now. He was wearing the hood of his habit over his head, but now he shook it off. “If I were to be destroyed in this matter, there would be a huge din and much searching after causes. The manciple of Paul’s is a high office –”

“I know it.”

“Any moot or inquest would be a long one.” He stepped aside as two men crossed between them with a ladder. “Will you show me your will in this matter?”

“There is a boy of mine. One Hamo. One of God’s simple creatures, without thought. He may be persuaded to carry the mechanism to St. Sepulchre and to unlock the fire. Would your mind be easier then?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then you must speak with him. We will meet this evening, before the sun declines.”

Exmewe had known that the manciple would wish to avoid the task that he had set him. Despite his brave faith as a predestined man, Robert Rafu was of a fearful disposition and easily discouraged. He was a heretic, but no martyr. Exmewe had already decided that Hamo must be sacrificed. The boy knew too much. Exmewe’s fears had in recent days been mightily increased, ever since he had learned that Hamo had visited the nun of Clerkenwell. Exmewe knew this because he had been informed by the bailiff of the House of Mary, an acquaintance who had been seasoned with gifts of cloth and pottery from the abbey’s store. Exmewe did not know what had passed between boy and nun; but he suspected much. They were both children of darkness, born out of wedlock, and there was no doubt a bond of secret sympathy between them. If Hamo had mentioned the death of the tooth-drawer, would she have told him that the man still lived? Or had Hamo sought for simple absolution? Had he betrayed the predestined men? Had he overheard secret matters concerning Dominus? The sweat came out of Exmewe’s body, hot and pungent before turning cold; it poured from him, as if he wished to be dissolved.

In fact the boy and the nun had said little to one another. The mystery of their lives was too great for many words between them. The nun knew of Hamo’s origins, and had asked for his blessing. This had astounded him but, before he could stammer out a reply, she put her finger to his lips. “Not from your mouth,” she had said. “From your loneliness.”

“How do you know of me?” he asked at last.

“Your sorrow is the angel that I see. You do not know why you came into the world.”

“And do you?”

“I was summoned, Hamo Fulberd.”

They had sat in silence for a while. “There is a place called Haukyn’s Field,” he said. “A great bare field only –”

“Where you walk the ground and weep? It is the place of your conception.” She bent over and touched his knee. “It is said by some, Hamo, that God has given life out of forgetting or neglectfulness. That He is bored by his Creation. Others say that He multiplied humankind so that He might outwit the demon, like a gamester who piles up lead tokens in a game of hazard. The more souls, the harder the labour to ensnare them.”

“I am like to be ensnared. There is one called William Exmewe –”

“Hush. I know of him.” Once more there was silence between them. “We say in English, Hamo, that we feel a man’s mind when we understand his intent or meaning. When the same is very dark and hard to be perceived, we do commonly say ‘I cannot feel his mind.’ That is not my case. I can feel your mind.”

“How do you, when I cannot find my own mind?”

“Feel.”

“When I cannot feel my own mind? All is in darkness.” And, with these words, he left her.

Now Exmewe was planning his fate. If Hamo were successful in the firing of St. Sepulchre he would be a wanted felon; if he were taken in the attempt, Exmewe would cast blame upon the nun. If Hamo were to die, well, what cannot be mended must be ended. Need knows no law. And so he invited the manciple to have conference with Hamo that evening, at dusk, by the bank of the Fleet.

Robert Rafu rode along the Thames to the meeting place. The wives of the citizens were fetching and taking up water, or washing their clothes, as they had done for time out of mind. Children stripped and plunged into the river, their harsh shrieks leaving Rafu uneasy. There were two or three groups of foreign merchants talking earnestly to one another. But Rafu did not need to approach them to understand their expressions and their gestures. In the last several days Henry Bolingbroke had ridden across the north and had acquired a great army; the keeper of England during Richard’s absence in Ireland, York, had surrendered to him in the parish church of Berkeley. A week ago King Richard had finally landed in Wales, but his support was weak. Would battle now be joined? The merchants were concerned for their ships, already sailing towards the Port of London. One of them spat upon the ground, but it seemed to Rafu that the man was spitting at him. He hastened north towards Clerkenwell.

When he arrived by the saffron fields on the west bank of the Fleet, he saw William Exmewe holding the arm of