Vixen. Rosie Garland

atop the old. Now I understood why the ground about him was smeared with blood.

      ‘This is too much, my son,’ I said gently. ‘The Lord does not demand such—’

      ‘Such what? Such shows? How do you know what God has demanded of me?’

      The cause of his wounds was clear: about his middle was a girdle of iron, tight-fitting and barbed with teeth that pierced his skin every time he breathed in. Fresh blood soaked into his hose. As I watched, he removed this cruel belt and struck himself over the left shoulder: once, twice, thrice; then over the right, tearing fresh wounds. There were gasps of wonder from those standing around. He uttered not the smallest sound, teeth gripped together, face set like stone.

      ‘You have no idea what sins I have committed,’ he grunted. ‘What God and my priest have ordered as repentance.’

      When he finished flogging himself, he fastened the belt once more and put on his over-tunic. Without so much as a glance at the shrine, he turned and, still on his knees, dragged himself back down the nave. I walked at his side. No one else would stand close to him and I grieved for his loneliness.

      ‘Absolution awaits all who truly repent,’ I said.

      ‘Do you presume to see into my heart?’

      ‘I am a man of God,’ I declared. ‘Be careful how you address me, however noble you may be.’ I strove to make my voice tender again, for he was a soul in torment. I had never seen one so undone by his sin. ‘Surely you may stand now that you have completed your pilgrimage?’ I said quietly.

      ‘Completed?’ he said, bitterness dripping from the word. ‘I am but a quarter way through.’

      ‘My son—’

      He interrupted me. ‘I am charged to visit every shrine in England, on my knees. Then Wales, then Ireland. Then Saint James at Compostela.’

      ‘God grant you peace,’ I said.

      He turned empty eyes to mine and hauled himself away, huffing and puffing, swinging the stumps of his legs one after the other. All heads turned to follow him on his painful journey out of the church. Two servants awaited him, a grim-faced old man and one much younger of the same stamp: I guessed father and son. When they saw me they bowed their heads with the precise amount of reverence due an insignificant parish priest and not one whit more. It was difficult to tell if they succoured their charge or watched to see if he reneged on his vow.

      ‘What did he do, Father?’ said a voice at my shoulder, so unexpectedly that I jumped.

      I turned stern eyes upon my questioner, a youth from the village whose name I did not remember.

      ‘That is for God to know, and not for men to gossip about.’

      ‘It must’ve been something very wicked,’ he mused, as though I had not spoken.

      I fixed him with a disapproving stare. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders and sauntered out of the church towards the great yew, where a clutch of young hatchlings gathered, lounging against each other and whistling at the girls who had flocked from the surrounding villages.

      He pointed his finger at the retreating penitent and their heads drew close as they whispered who knew what sort of nonsense. I considered marching across and chiding them for treating this holy day with so little respect. However, when I raised my eyes to the west window, the Saint looked down with such loving kindness that I relented. I counselled myself that it might be better to bring them to godliness through mild words rather than cruelty. Perhaps kindness should be the watchword for my sermon.

      The pilgrims were much affected by the agonising spectacle of the penitent on his knees. Their weeping increased in intensity, as if it was not already deafening. One woman fell to the floor with a particularly piercing wail. She was helped back up by her companions, but struggled against them, falling once more. They tried to lift her but each time were defeated.

      I hurried to assist, for the disturbance was distracting the pilgrims from their devotions as they queued to touch the shrine. In the time it took to reach her, the woman had started to babble noisily and everyone was stretching their necks to get a better view.

      ‘This is not our doing,’ hissed one of her companions, before I had even had a chance to open my mouth.

      ‘She has been moved by the spirit of repentance!’ cried a stranger from a few yards away.

      The noisy woman’s friends looked at each other doubtfully, weighing up if this might be the case.

      ‘Let me kneel!’ the woman yelled. ‘I beg forgiveness!’ She tore at her coif and a long strand of hair tumbled out, a fat black worm sprinkled with salt. ‘I am a sinner!’ she gargled, sinking to the floor.

      Her companions glanced at each other over her head and frowned.

      ‘Come now, mistress,’ I said sternly. ‘The Saint does not demand that you shout. He can hear the quietest of prayers.’

      One eye flipped open and peered at me. It looked me up and down, testing the weight of my words. Then it closed and she began to bemoan her sins even more fervently. I arched my eyebrow at her friends, who caught the significance of my gesture. They picked her up by the armpits and dragged her towards the shrine with as much grace as a sack of beets, her blubbering the whole while.

      A number of pilgrims muttered complaints that she was carried to the front of the queue while they had to wait patiently. I made pious comments about the Saint’s ears being dinned in by the screeching, and how it would be a shame if he grew deaf to the prayers of others as a result. They saw sense straight away and helped her up the chancel steps.

      She had fainted clean away by the time they brought her down; exhausted by her exertions or some kind miracle, I could not tell. She was carted out of the west door with much flapping of kerchiefs in her face.

      Her bothersome performance infected the pilgrims: some fell to their knees at the west door, some as far back as the lychgate. Most contented themselves with dropping at the rood screen and made the last few yards of their journey grunting and puffing. An uncharitable part of my soul wondered if they thought the Saint could only see them after they passed through its thick gateway.

      I told the first ones that it was not necessary; the Saint did not demand it of everyone. I was given looks of disbelief that a priest should ask for fewer penitent gestures rather than more. In the end I left them to it and counselled myself that if God willed this, then so be it.

      I wondered if word would get around and at the next festival the whole lot of them would approach thus. Perhaps leaden tokens in the shape of knees would be sold; perhaps Brannoc would garner a reputation as a healer of ailments of the leg and there would be a rush of pilgrims afflicted with diseases of the ankles.

      These were distracting thoughts. What might happen next year was in the hands of the Almighty. I sighed and rubbed my fingers on the point where my brows met. The commotion was driving a nail into my brains. William strolled by.

      ‘Why are you not at your post?’ I asked.

      ‘Clearing out a piece of rubbish,’ he laughed, clapping his hands. He dipped inside his tunic and drew out a small leather bag. ‘See?’ he said, waving it in my face.

      ‘What should I see?’

      ‘The ties are cut,’ he replied, slowly, and I had the strong sense he was speaking as you would to an idiot. ‘I found a lad lightening a gentleman of his possessions. Scabby little snip of a – begging your pardon, Father.’

      ‘Where is the boy? I must counsel him.’

      ‘He doesn’t need any more of that, Father. I’ve given him a right good counselling.’ He laughed again. ‘He’ll not be back.’

      He sailed out of the west door, tall and straight as a mast. He waved the money bag above his head and bawled for its owner to claim it. I leaned against the rood-screen to gather my tattered senses together. I still had no sure theme for my festival sermon