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

with you when you do walk out. Exmewe is not yet found. This corruption may linger. A fog cannot be dispersed with a fan. Remember, for the passion of God, that these predestined ones are also troublous men. They might turn you towards great harm.”

“Then, father, I pray you, let me have the thing I came for. Absolution.”

Ferrour sighed again, and lifted up his hood. They stood face to face. He stared at Vavasour for a moment, and moved his lips as if he were thirsty and wished to drink. In a low voice he imposed the penance, at which Vavasour sobbed aloud. Then he made a rough sign of the cross upon the sergeant’s forehead. “Ego te absolvo,” he began as Vavasour whispered his act of contrition. When it was completed the parson took his arm. “God give grace all will be well. Come out into the air.”

They left the chapel, and walked into a paved courtyard.

“The moon is huge tonight, God bless her.”

The sergeant made no reply. He was already contemplating the nature of his penance which would take him beyond this familiar sky. John Ferrour had commanded him to go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, leaving all his goods and possessions behind; he would be obliged to beg for his sustenance during the long journey, since he must proceed only with robe, stick and empty sack. He had kept silence while all good authority was set in doubt, and must pay the forfeit.

Ferrour had heard of the predestined men, since these arch-heretics had been reported in Antwerp and Cologne. But he had not known of their presence in London itself. No doubt, among the citizens, they had won converts whose names and numbers remained unknown. This Exmewe was a limb of the fiend. How could God permit heretics to work their will? Was all preordinate by Him? But if the time was prefixed, there could be no remedy through the agency of grace. Man was doomed perpetually. The parson had once told Henry Bolingbroke that the star which led the three kings towards Jesus from the east might well have been their belief which they acquired first at baptism. “The sacrament of baptism is called the east, where the sun first arises,” he had said, “for there sprang first to them the day of grace after the night of original sin.” But now all seemed to be in twilight. It was hard to see clearly in this world. What if sin came from God, the maker of all things? The predestined men might then have issued from the hand of God. God might have created damned souls. “Lord, in thy wildness,” he murmured to the cold air, “do not undermine my faith.”

The first fog of autumn was gathering in the courtyard of the palace. Westminster had once been marsh ground, and the palace itself had been built upon an island “in loco terribili.” It was terrible still, filled with the passions and envies of men fighting for power; the atmosphere of fog and gloom had never left it. As John Ferrour walked across the courtyard he encountered one of Henry’s men, Perkin Woodroffe, who had that day threatened Richard with sudden death. “The breaking time is over,” Perkin said to the parson after they had exchanged greetings. “We must begin to build.”

“Until the end of time shall undo it all.”

“Why, Sir John, you speak darkly. Be cheerful. Tomorrow is not born.”

“But then tomorrow becomes yesterday.”

“Your wit is marred, good parson. This fog has entered your head.” He stepped closer to him. “Be sure that it does not enter Henry’s. His will must be rightful and strong. A man who borrows hot coals to start his fire must run with leaps and bounds over all obstacles.”

“I will assist him as much as I may, Perkin. Christ keep you.”

Yet the parson secretly believed that Henry Bolingbroke was cumbered with corrupt humours. When the snuff obscures the light so that it cannot burn clear, then there is more smoke to add to the vapouring mass. He slipped upon a loose cobble, and fell heavily to the ground where he lay for a moment in severe pain. “Why, you have fallen like humankind.” It was Henry Bolingbroke himself, who helped him to his feet. “You should beware where you walk.”

“You represent grace, sir, after the fall.”

“They say that all mist is decaying cloud. But I believe that this fog issues from the earth.”

“It is decay, certainly. For me it is an allegory of sin.”

“Well said.” Henry clapped his confessor on the back. “We must always remember our frailty.” His hot breath mingled with the fog. “You stand at the door of my conscience. On this day of triumph, let us talk of things spiritual.”

“I must first talk of other matters, sir, which may concern you deeply. We have dark tidings to digest.”

The fog had now spread along the river, and had entered the walled city.19

Chapter Twenty-two

The Second Nun’s Tale

Ten days after Henry Bolingbroke had learned of the predestined men, Sister Bridget was standing beside the nun of Clerkenwell in a gallery of Westminster Abbey. Sister Clarice was peering through a squint at the ceremony in the chancel below. By the high altar sat Henry, wrapped in cloth of gold; his throne was of alabaster richly decorated with jewels, and the tapestry at his feet had been embroidered with gold and silver thread to represent the story of Samuel and Saul.

“I see the crown,” Clarice whispered to Bridget. “It has arches in the shape of a cross. A wondrous work to put on an unhallowed head. They have broken the temple, and stolen the vessel of grace.” The voice of Henry could be heard, reciting the coronation oath in English. Clarice was whispering fiercely once more, but she was no longer addressing Bridget. “He will sell the souls of the lambs to the wolf that strangles them. He will never have part of the pasture of lambs, that