elder buds.’
He holds the jar for her to see the dark paste within.
‘It cools wounds and cures almost everything,’ he says.
Then he tucks it away in a leather pack, and sets the leather pack inside another one, and this he places very carefully on the mule’s pack, as if it is valuable. Thomas stands with the giant’s pollaxe, looking uncertain what to do with it. Does he carry it? Or put it on the mule? Eventually they decide on the mule and they set out, following a path where the wood thins and out on to a broad expanse of fog-haunted marshes.
‘By the blood of Mary,’ the pardoner laughs as they walk. ‘Will you look at us? Two thieves ripe for the hanging and the third a victim of the plague. Thank the Lord for this mist or they’d have raised the cry and chased us away by now.’
To Katherine’s eye the pardoner’s clothes appear garish. He wears a long russet habit, not unlike Thomas’s, but over it a blue fur-trimmed cloak with a tightly fitting hood that has been dyed bright green. A low-crowned round hat of black-fringed felt holds the hood in place and she can see that between his hat, hood and beard, it is almost impossible to see the whorls on his neck.
Next to him Thomas looks like a crow, but she knows she is the worst: her patched cassock is crusted with mud; she has only one clog and no headgear, not even a cloth to cover her hair. She looks the sort of beggar the Prioress would turn away from the gate.
‘I will lend you my hat,’ the pardoner says, passing it to her. ‘And there’ll be a fripperer at the market from whom we might buy something more suitable. It should not be too far now.’
Ahead of them they hear the steady din of bells, and she can smell coal smoke. They join a road and as they walk, its surface improves. Stone replaces mud, and other travellers pass with loaded mules and curious looks.
‘Sir, by the grace of God, good day to you,’ the pardoner sings out each time he feels their glances settle too heavily on one or other of them, and each time the traveller nods and returns the greeting and moves on with a blessing, as if all were well.
Katherine stares back at them resentfully, and after a time the pardoner touches her elbow.
‘We’re strangers here, Sister,’ he says. ‘If someone takes against us, they will denounce us for some crime, and without our friends to vouch for our good name, we will end up like this poor fellow.’
He gestures towards a tree where a crowd of birds mob something hanging from the branches. It is a man’s body, hanging near naked, mottled and erupting with decay, his braided guts spilling out like fistfuls of grey string. A bird with glossy feathers clings to its face and with each peck the corpse twitches on its rope. The smell of rotting meat is thick and sweet.
‘Been there about ten days,’ the pardoner guesses.
‘But why doesn’t someone bury him?’ Katherine asks through her fingers.
‘He’s posted as a warning to others.’ The pardoner shrugs. ‘Were it a witch they would just strangle her at the roadside and leave her for the dogs. In the south when they catch a thief they nail his ear to a post and give him a knife to cut himself free.’
They walk on through mist that is shrinking towards the river, leaving a sodden, level landscape interrupted by meagre stands of trees, a low-beamed cottage and a herd of oily sheep. Ahead the town is a gathering of church spires and roofs under a pall of dark smoke.
‘The town of Boston,’ the pardoner says. ‘Home to a thousand or so souls. We must get through it to reach the harbour.’
She hesitates.
‘Come on,’ the pardoner encourages. ‘Walk on the far side of the mule, so the captain of the gate can’t see you. And hold its rope, so that if he does, he’ll think it belongs to you, and that you’re worth something after all.’
They join the other travellers queuing behind a carter trying to get his oxen on to the bridge.
‘
Hoc opus, hic labor
He holds the jar for her to see the dark paste within.
‘It cools wounds and cures almost everything,’ he says.
Then he tucks it away in a leather pack, and sets the leather pack inside another one, and this he places very carefully on the mule’s pack, as if it is valuable. Thomas stands with the giant’s pollaxe, looking uncertain what to do with it. Does he carry it? Or put it on the mule? Eventually they decide on the mule and they set out, following a path where the wood thins and out on to a broad expanse of fog-haunted marshes.
‘By the blood of Mary,’ the pardoner laughs as they walk. ‘Will you look at us? Two thieves ripe for the hanging and the third a victim of the plague. Thank the Lord for this mist or they’d have raised the cry and chased us away by now.’
To Katherine’s eye the pardoner’s clothes appear garish. He wears a long russet habit, not unlike Thomas’s, but over it a blue fur-trimmed cloak with a tightly fitting hood that has been dyed bright green. A low-crowned round hat of black-fringed felt holds the hood in place and she can see that between his hat, hood and beard, it is almost impossible to see the whorls on his neck.
Next to him Thomas looks like a crow, but she knows she is the worst: her patched cassock is crusted with mud; she has only one clog and no headgear, not even a cloth to cover her hair. She looks the sort of beggar the Prioress would turn away from the gate.
‘I will lend you my hat,’ the pardoner says, passing it to her. ‘And there’ll be a fripperer at the market from whom we might buy something more suitable. It should not be too far now.’
Ahead of them they hear the steady din of bells, and she can smell coal smoke. They join a road and as they walk, its surface improves. Stone replaces mud, and other travellers pass with loaded mules and curious looks.
‘Sir, by the grace of God, good day to you,’ the pardoner sings out each time he feels their glances settle too heavily on one or other of them, and each time the traveller nods and returns the greeting and moves on with a blessing, as if all were well.
Katherine stares back at them resentfully, and after a time the pardoner touches her elbow.
‘We’re strangers here, Sister,’ he says. ‘If someone takes against us, they will denounce us for some crime, and without our friends to vouch for our good name, we will end up like this poor fellow.’
He gestures towards a tree where a crowd of birds mob something hanging from the branches. It is a man’s body, hanging near naked, mottled and erupting with decay, his braided guts spilling out like fistfuls of grey string. A bird with glossy feathers clings to its face and with each peck the corpse twitches on its rope. The smell of rotting meat is thick and sweet.
‘Been there about ten days,’ the pardoner guesses.
‘But why doesn’t someone bury him?’ Katherine asks through her fingers.
‘He’s posted as a warning to others.’ The pardoner shrugs. ‘Were it a witch they would just strangle her at the roadside and leave her for the dogs. In the south when they catch a thief they nail his ear to a post and give him a knife to cut himself free.’
They walk on through mist that is shrinking towards the river, leaving a sodden, level landscape interrupted by meagre stands of trees, a low-beamed cottage and a herd of oily sheep. Ahead the town is a gathering of church spires and roofs under a pall of dark smoke.
‘The town of Boston,’ the pardoner says. ‘Home to a thousand or so souls. We must get through it to reach the harbour.’
She hesitates.
‘Come on,’ the pardoner encourages. ‘Walk on the far side of the mule, so the captain of the gate can’t see you. And hold its rope, so that if he does, he’ll think it belongs to you, and that you’re worth something after all.’
They join the other travellers queuing behind a carter trying to get his oxen on to the bridge.
‘
Hoc opus, hic labor
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