anyone. After all, not doing bad things is not the same as doing good things, but that is why you and I will never become saints. On the other hand, you and I are unlikely to be buried under a big pile of stones as a result of bad engineering practices, so these things even themselves out in the end.
The bishop of Biddlecombe at the time was named Bernard, but he was known far and wide as Bishop Bernard the Bad. Obviously, this wasn’t what his parents named him, as that would have been a bit foolish. I mean, if you name someone “the Bad” then, really, you’re just asking for trouble. It would have led to conversations like the following:
Bernard’s Parents: Hello, this is our son Bernard the Bad. We hope he’ll become a bishop someday. A nice one, of course. Not a bad one.
Not Bernard’s Parents: Er, then why did you name him “the Bad”?
Bernard’s Parents: Oh dear … 21
Bishop Bernard the Bad was given his nickname because he was extremely nasty. Bishop Bernard didn’t like people who disagreed with him, especially if they disagreed with his decisions to steal lots of money, kill people who had anything that he might want, and have children, even if he wasn’t supposed to have children because he was a bishop. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to do
any
of those things, but that didn’t stop Bishop Bernard. Bishop Bernard also believed there were few problems in life that couldn’t be solved by sticking a hot poker up somebody’s bottom. If that didn’t work, which was rare, he would put his enemies on a rack and stretch them until they said, “Ow!” very loudly, or just kill them, often in a slow and painful way. BishopBernard knew that people called him Bernard the Bad behind his back, but he didn’t care. He rather liked the idea that people were terrified of him.
By the time St. Timidus of Biddlecombe, who wasn’t bad at all, just a little confused, died in his cave, Bishop Bernard the Bad was getting old. He decided that a church should be built and named after St. Timidus, and when he died, Bishop Bernard would be buried in a special vault in the church. That way, Bishop Bernard could pretend that he had something in common with the saint and perhaps, over time, people might forget that he was bad, as he would be the one buried in the church.
People aren’t that stupid.
Instead, when he died, Bishop Bernard was buried beneath a little room at the side of the church, and the only sign that he was there was a stone in the floor with his name on it. Thereafter, he was always mentioned when visitors were brought on tours of the chapel, but they were only told of the bad things that he had done, mainly because he had never done anything good.
So there you have it: the history of the Church of St. Timidus. Why all that is so important we shall discover later. For now, it is enough to know that Reverend Ussher and Mr. Berkeley were standing outside its doors, being very polite, when Mr. Berkeley saw Samuel approaching and nudged the vicar.
“Look out, Vicar,” he said, “it’s that strange Johnson boy.”
The vicar looked alarmed. Samuel Johnson was only eleven years old, but he sometimes asked the kinds of questions that would challenge elderly philosophers. Most recently, the vicar recalled, there had been a lengthy discussion about angels andpins, which was something to do with a school project, although he couldn’t imagine what kind of school, other than a theology college, might require its students to debate the size and nature of the angelic host. To be perfectly frank, it had made Reverend Ussher’s head spin. He thought that Samuel Johnson might be some kind of child prodigy or genius. Then again, he might simply be a rather annoying small boy, of which, in Reverend Ussher’s experience, there were already too many in the world.
Now here Samuel was again, his brow furrowed in the kind of concentration that suggested the vicar’s knowledge of matters divine and angelic was
The bishop of Biddlecombe at the time was named Bernard, but he was known far and wide as Bishop Bernard the Bad. Obviously, this wasn’t what his parents named him, as that would have been a bit foolish. I mean, if you name someone “the Bad” then, really, you’re just asking for trouble. It would have led to conversations like the following:
Bernard’s Parents: Hello, this is our son Bernard the Bad. We hope he’ll become a bishop someday. A nice one, of course. Not a bad one.
Not Bernard’s Parents: Er, then why did you name him “the Bad”?
Bernard’s Parents: Oh dear … 21
Bishop Bernard the Bad was given his nickname because he was extremely nasty. Bishop Bernard didn’t like people who disagreed with him, especially if they disagreed with his decisions to steal lots of money, kill people who had anything that he might want, and have children, even if he wasn’t supposed to have children because he was a bishop. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to do
any
of those things, but that didn’t stop Bishop Bernard. Bishop Bernard also believed there were few problems in life that couldn’t be solved by sticking a hot poker up somebody’s bottom. If that didn’t work, which was rare, he would put his enemies on a rack and stretch them until they said, “Ow!” very loudly, or just kill them, often in a slow and painful way. BishopBernard knew that people called him Bernard the Bad behind his back, but he didn’t care. He rather liked the idea that people were terrified of him.
By the time St. Timidus of Biddlecombe, who wasn’t bad at all, just a little confused, died in his cave, Bishop Bernard the Bad was getting old. He decided that a church should be built and named after St. Timidus, and when he died, Bishop Bernard would be buried in a special vault in the church. That way, Bishop Bernard could pretend that he had something in common with the saint and perhaps, over time, people might forget that he was bad, as he would be the one buried in the church.
People aren’t that stupid.
Instead, when he died, Bishop Bernard was buried beneath a little room at the side of the church, and the only sign that he was there was a stone in the floor with his name on it. Thereafter, he was always mentioned when visitors were brought on tours of the chapel, but they were only told of the bad things that he had done, mainly because he had never done anything good.
So there you have it: the history of the Church of St. Timidus. Why all that is so important we shall discover later. For now, it is enough to know that Reverend Ussher and Mr. Berkeley were standing outside its doors, being very polite, when Mr. Berkeley saw Samuel approaching and nudged the vicar.
“Look out, Vicar,” he said, “it’s that strange Johnson boy.”
The vicar looked alarmed. Samuel Johnson was only eleven years old, but he sometimes asked the kinds of questions that would challenge elderly philosophers. Most recently, the vicar recalled, there had been a lengthy discussion about angels andpins, which was something to do with a school project, although he couldn’t imagine what kind of school, other than a theology college, might require its students to debate the size and nature of the angelic host. To be perfectly frank, it had made Reverend Ussher’s head spin. He thought that Samuel Johnson might be some kind of child prodigy or genius. Then again, he might simply be a rather annoying small boy, of which, in Reverend Ussher’s experience, there were already too many in the world.
Now here Samuel was again, his brow furrowed in the kind of concentration that suggested the vicar’s knowledge of matters divine and angelic was
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