The man pulled his foot from the lay brother’s hand. “You are refusing charity? A priory? I cannot walk on this…” His lips stretched across his teeth in a well-formed grimace.
Good teeth too, the lay brother noted. “I did not say we were refusing your request, but the only space we have is in this hospital.”
“And there will be food for my growling belly?”
“The priory provides simple but nourishing fare,” he said. The man was very thin, the lay brother observed with more compassion. Perhaps he had been deathly ill and long enough in bed to soften those feet.
“Why did you not tell me immediately that I was as welcome as Our Lord would have been?”
“Because we normally have room, at least in the dormitory. Few want a bed next to the dying.”
“Have so many travelers stopped here?” The pilgrim frowned. “Are any on the way to Canterbury as am I?”
The lay brother shook his head. “Our priory has just welcomed a priest sent by the abbess of Fontevraud Abbey in Anjou. He and his attendants have come to review our lives, our accounts, and our roofs, a common practice in many monastic houses. We are honored to have such a noble visitor.” He could not help the note of pride in his voice. “Father Etienne Davoir is not only confessor to a brother of the King of France, he is soon to be invested as a bishop.”
“I thought I saw a large party of armed men in the village when I sought directions to your gate.”
“The local innkeeper will house the men sent by our king to protect our visitor and his clerks. We accommodate all those men devoted to God’s service.”
The pilgrim looked thoughtful. “I have been told that the more clerks a priest has, the higher in rank he stands. How many did this man bring?”
“I could not say. Father Etienne and his two senior clerks were given the largest accommodations as is proper for visitors of the highest rank. The others have been lodged with the monks. We are not a large priory and room for guests is limited.” He gestured toward the priory. “Our buildings are old. I fear the clerks will be busy over many days checking for cracks, leaks, and mold.”
The man nodded with appreciation. “Then I am grateful for the bed and fare you offer me, Brother, and shall stay only as long as it takes my injury to heal. The moans of dying men will remind me that our sins drag our naked souls into the pits of Hell. In return for your charity, I shall add my prayers for those trembling spirits as they anticipate God’s judgement.”
The lay brother’s eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected show of concern for others. After the pilgrim’s whining over a minor injury, he would not have expected that. With a nod, the lay brother found a crutch for the man and led the pilgrim to the straw mat that would be his bed.
***
Philippe was not a pilgrim, although he did come from a town in the region of Picardy and he most certainly had tender feet. His sprain was fabricated, but the pain from walking, when he could not beg a ride in a farmer’s cart, was not. Sandals were not his usual footwear, nor was this rough and filthy robe. He scratched at his head and feared he had lice.
When he saw the thin straw mat on which he must sleep, he suspected his smile had resembled the frozen grin on a corpse more than an expression of gratitude, but he was weary of pretending. Not that he truly expected the comfort of a mattress with clean sheets and a coverlet on cold nights; those were for the dying or seriously ill, but he had hoped. Oh, how he had hoped! He ached with hope.
Kneeling, he sniffed at his bedding. At least the straw was clean.
He stretched out and closed his eyes. It had been a long journey, and he was exhausted. For a moment, he must have dozed, but a piercing scream shattered any dreams. He sat up and looked around.
A few yards away, a tall nun was holding a woman back from a bed. The captive was howling like one possessed and flailing her arms as if she were trying to fly. Beside her, a man knelt, his hands pressed to his face. Sobbing loudly, he raised his eyes upward. “My son!” he shouted to the heavens. “Why did you take my son from me?”
Philippe might not have devoted most of his hours to worshiping God, but he deeply felt the grief these two were suffering. Rolling onto his knees, he prayed for the lad’s soul and that God would give comfort to the parents. “More than You have given me,” he whispered. “Please!”
Finally, the grieving pair were led away, the woman whimpering and straining against the arms of the nun who tried to pull her along as gently as possible.
He lay back on his straw and stared at the high ceiling over his head. Sleep was now impossible. Silently, he uttered a curse.
In a short while, the tall nun returned with a lay brother, and they fell into a hushed discussion over the corpse on the bed. Philippe could not hear their words, but he understood the meaning. The lay brother reached down, picked up the small body, and carried it down the aisle.
As the man passed by, Philippe covered his nose. For such a small corpse, it stank horribly. Trying not to breathe, he glanced back at the nun who was tearing linen off the bed. A lay sister ran to her and bent to pick it up.
“Burn it,” the nun said.
Philippe trembled. Priories were not wanton with their hospital linen. If this was so foul, what noxious vapors from the sheets and the corpse had contaminated the air?
He groaned. Might he die too? He would not mind as long as he accomplished his purpose first. Turning onto his side away from the deathbed, he covered his eyes and prayed again. This time his plea was for himself.
“Is this man waiting for a bed?” The woman’s voice was very close.
He looked up to see the tall nun standing over him. Her expression was unsettling as her eyes studied him. Had she been a man, he would have feared her. As it was, he still shivered. Despite her habit, he wondered if she might be a servant of the Devil.
The lay brother, who had treated his ankle, appeared at her side. “No, Sister Anne. He came with a sprained ankle and now begs shelter as a poor pilgrim. Since we have no other space for him…”
“I ask for nothing more than the charity of clean straw and food, for which I bless you. Let those in far greater distress have any free beds.” Philippe of Picardy sat up, carefully winced, and forced a brave smile. “Are you the leader of this religious house?” He knew better. What noble prioress would tear befouled linen from a bed? But he understood the art of the compliment.
“I am the sub-infirmarian. Prioress Eleanor leads us.”
She did not even blush at the flattery, he thought with displeasure. “And the infirmarian?”
As if hesitant to name the person, she was silent for a moment. “Sister Christina. Do you have need of her prayers?”
Philippe shook his head. “If she is so saintly that her pleas to God heal men, I am too unworthy to be in her presence.” He lowered his eyes. “I am on my way to Canterbury to expiate grievous sins.”
“Are you in pain?”
He grimaced before nodding which, he hoped, suggested brave endurance.
The lay brother snorted and turned away.
“I shall send someone with a soothing potion after I have seen to those who are more gravely ill.” She gestured toward the back of the hospital. “We have a chapel there, near the apothecary hut. You may go to pray and ease your soul until you can continue on your pilgrimage.”
He brightened with a glow of genuine happiness at her words. Spending time in the chapel would give him a view of the apothecary, but the sub-infirmarian would assume his joy came from a purer motive.
She smiled and walked on. The lay brother went with her, although he glanced back with a puzzled look.
Philippe crawled to his feet. His wince rose from the pain of his abused feet. At least he did not have to feign that soreness. The discomfort should not last long, however. His soles bore no blisters. Not wanting to chance infection, he had made sure of that.