feels sick.
‘We must find our vessel,’ the pardoner announces, though this is news to her. ‘It won’t be long before the friars get about and they’ll know you’ve left your priory. First though: some clothes.’
They find the fripperer beyond the tailors’ stalls on the far side of the market, next to a man dealing in horsehides and urine. He is seated on the ground with his legs crossed, surrounded by a shin-high pile of rags of every kind of colour and cloth. He is working on some stitching, but when he sees the pardoner looming into view, he throws aside the work and is on his feet.
‘Master,’ he says, ‘may God make you prosper.’
With quick eyes he grades the value of their clothes, deducting from the total the price of every tear and abrasion, and though he is pleased at the thought of the money a man like the pardoner might possess, he grimaces when he sees Thomas and Katherine’s cassocks. The pardoner explains what he wants and the clothes-mender begins casting uncertainly through his stock, looking for something that might do.
‘I cannot furnish this chit with anything at the present,’ he says, indicating Katherine. ‘Women tend to their own clothes, see, or if they do leave me a garment, they come by to collect it. They don’t seem to get caught up in other things, as men do, or get themselves killed so often.’
‘I am not interested in anything for the girl,’ the pardoner tells him airily. ‘She can take her chances. I need clothing for him, and for my other servant. A lad smaller than this one.’
‘Much easier, that,’ the fripperer says and he begins pulling garments from different piles again, holding them up and then discarding them. Eventually he hands Thomas two piles.
‘Should sort you out,’ he says.
The pardoner pays the man and they retreat to an alley behind the marketplace.
‘You can change here,’ he says, dividing up the piles of clothing. ‘And mind where you step.’
The smell in the alley is powerful, and at its end they each turn a different corner and begin to try to make sense of their new clothes. For Katherine it is a strange experience. She needs to hold them up first, to see what they are. Then she pulls on the linen braies, followed by the woven hose. She rolls them over at the top and ties them off around her waist. Then she quickly takes off her cassock, and plunges her naked arms into the undershirt. It is rose-coloured, faded in parts, mossy at the pits and slick with wear. Then comes the tunic, russet-coloured as most men wear, then the coat, green and quilted, but worn and smelling of horses. Down its front on one side is a row of rough horn discs with which she is not familiar, and down the other stitched slits that mystify her. The garment gapes over her bosom and feels wrong. She’s spent her life in a cassock that hangs from her shoulders and these new clothes grip her body in unfamiliar places. Still, she is able to move more freely unhampered by the heavy skirts, and so long as she does not get her feet wet, she imagines she will be warm.
She meets Thomas in the alleyway and they stare at one another for a moment. His jacket is blue and his hose green on one leg, red on the other. His tunic strains where he had done up the buttons on the front. When Katherine sees this, she understands what the bone discs on her own jacket are for and she clumsily presses them home.
‘These are men’s clothes,’ she says.
Thomas nods.
‘It is safer,’ he says. ‘They will be looking for a canon and a sister.’
She nods. Unsure. He too looks askance.
‘Why is he doing this?’ she asks, pulling on the felt cap she’s been given. ‘He has no need to show us such kindness.’
‘It is a penance, I think,’ Thomas says. ‘If he helps us, things will go well for him in France. And if he hopes to benefit from it, then we may take these favours in good conscience, surely?’
She sees he too is in need of persuasion.
‘We would have
‘We must find our vessel,’ the pardoner announces, though this is news to her. ‘It won’t be long before the friars get about and they’ll know you’ve left your priory. First though: some clothes.’
They find the fripperer beyond the tailors’ stalls on the far side of the market, next to a man dealing in horsehides and urine. He is seated on the ground with his legs crossed, surrounded by a shin-high pile of rags of every kind of colour and cloth. He is working on some stitching, but when he sees the pardoner looming into view, he throws aside the work and is on his feet.
‘Master,’ he says, ‘may God make you prosper.’
With quick eyes he grades the value of their clothes, deducting from the total the price of every tear and abrasion, and though he is pleased at the thought of the money a man like the pardoner might possess, he grimaces when he sees Thomas and Katherine’s cassocks. The pardoner explains what he wants and the clothes-mender begins casting uncertainly through his stock, looking for something that might do.
‘I cannot furnish this chit with anything at the present,’ he says, indicating Katherine. ‘Women tend to their own clothes, see, or if they do leave me a garment, they come by to collect it. They don’t seem to get caught up in other things, as men do, or get themselves killed so often.’
‘I am not interested in anything for the girl,’ the pardoner tells him airily. ‘She can take her chances. I need clothing for him, and for my other servant. A lad smaller than this one.’
‘Much easier, that,’ the fripperer says and he begins pulling garments from different piles again, holding them up and then discarding them. Eventually he hands Thomas two piles.
‘Should sort you out,’ he says.
The pardoner pays the man and they retreat to an alley behind the marketplace.
‘You can change here,’ he says, dividing up the piles of clothing. ‘And mind where you step.’
The smell in the alley is powerful, and at its end they each turn a different corner and begin to try to make sense of their new clothes. For Katherine it is a strange experience. She needs to hold them up first, to see what they are. Then she pulls on the linen braies, followed by the woven hose. She rolls them over at the top and ties them off around her waist. Then she quickly takes off her cassock, and plunges her naked arms into the undershirt. It is rose-coloured, faded in parts, mossy at the pits and slick with wear. Then comes the tunic, russet-coloured as most men wear, then the coat, green and quilted, but worn and smelling of horses. Down its front on one side is a row of rough horn discs with which she is not familiar, and down the other stitched slits that mystify her. The garment gapes over her bosom and feels wrong. She’s spent her life in a cassock that hangs from her shoulders and these new clothes grip her body in unfamiliar places. Still, she is able to move more freely unhampered by the heavy skirts, and so long as she does not get her feet wet, she imagines she will be warm.
She meets Thomas in the alleyway and they stare at one another for a moment. His jacket is blue and his hose green on one leg, red on the other. His tunic strains where he had done up the buttons on the front. When Katherine sees this, she understands what the bone discs on her own jacket are for and she clumsily presses them home.
‘These are men’s clothes,’ she says.
Thomas nods.
‘It is safer,’ he says. ‘They will be looking for a canon and a sister.’
She nods. Unsure. He too looks askance.
‘Why is he doing this?’ she asks, pulling on the felt cap she’s been given. ‘He has no need to show us such kindness.’
‘It is a penance, I think,’ Thomas says. ‘If he helps us, things will go well for him in France. And if he hopes to benefit from it, then we may take these favours in good conscience, surely?’
She sees he too is in need of persuasion.
‘We would have
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