The sun was out, the smells of the open country pungent on the air, the song of birds carefree and sweet – and every step put a distance between Jared and his hurts. It was going to work!
‘Master, where are we headed to?’
‘Why, the Holy Land of our Lord Jesus.’
‘I mean, are you sure and all, that this is the way?’ Perkyn asked nervously.
Jared gave a small smile. A villein never saw anything but his village so Perkyn’s ignorance was understandable, but he had once travelled with his father nearly all the way to Tamworth and therefore was a man of the world. He’d spoken to Father Bertrand and a friar from the next village who knew pilgrim matters and they had set him straight. To Banbury and then on to Woodstock near Oxford where he’d no doubt find others on their way south on the Pilgrim’s Way to Rye, avoiding London. At that busy port he would take ship for Venice and from there direct to the Holy Land itself.
‘Yes, the high road to Banbury, next—’
‘Is this it?’ Perkyn asked, wide-eyed.
‘It must be,’ Jared said irritably. Hadn’t it always been pointed out to him as such?
But this was nothing more than a cart track in a grassy way, winding along the side of a slight rise, and since leaving Hurnwych they’d crossed a stream and seen several cattle trails wind away on their own. But didn’t drovers go direct to market, to Banbury? If so, they were going the wrong way and would have to spend the night in a ditch.
They stumped on but as the sun lowered Jared stopped and sat on the side of the road. To be lost on the very first day! If only—
On the air came a faint jingle and a string of four packhorses and a driver came into view. It drew closer and the sun-reddened man doffed his hat to the pilgrims.
‘Saint Christopher’s blessing on you both,’ he said respectfully.
‘God’s favour on you, good driver. Are you bound for Banbury, by chance?’
‘I am that. Salt and wool, has to be there by sundown.’
Relief flooded Jared. ‘Then we’ll walk together.’
The spire of St Mary’s was a welcome sight above the hills and the little party wound down into the town.
The driver pointed. ‘Yonder is Banbury Cross and over there your inn, The Blue Goose.’
A wave of fatigue and reaction washed over Jared and the thought of a good meal was irresistible.
‘Let’s get ourselves a bed, then,’ he told Perkyn.
It was a market day and the inn seethed with humanity.
‘Yo, the innkeeper!’ he called against the noise.
A short, surly man appeared.
‘Two o’ your best ales, and we’ll sup and have a bed for the night.’
‘A bed? That’ll be a penny from each o’ you.’
‘We’re pilgrims, Master Innkeeper. Can you not—?’
‘A penny, pilgrim or saint, all the same to me.’
This was steep – a free ploughman might toil half the day for a silver penny.
‘A penny for both?’
‘Each. It’s market, I can fill a bed without trying. Take it or leave it.’
The ale was good, and they found a place at the end of a table and readily quaffed it with their stewed mutton.
There were one or two curious glances but Jared was too footsore to join in conversation and demanded his bed.
It was in an open space on the upper gallery around a central well and one of a tight-packed row of cloth-covered straw mattresses in a rope-strung wooden frame.
There were already several occupied with sleepers snoring drunkenly but Jared was too tired to care.
‘Hey, you share!’ growled the innkeeper when Perkyn made to take another.
Jared shrugged. Finding refuge in his wrapped sclavein he felt Perkyn ease in beside him and with a whiff of musty straw he composed himself for sleep.
The night was not pleasant: so much humanity, coughs, muttering, the barking of dogs, late arrivals – it was something to be endured.
The morning brought grey skies and threatening rain but impelled by the far-distant calling they tramped off down the road, which they were assured would lead to Woodstock.
Some miles further they reached a river, broad and rush-fringed. The muddy road led into the water but there were stepping stones to the other side and they hopped and leapt across, laughing like children.
The going was better – gently rolling pastures and fields, woodland and the occasional village.
At one Jared decided to beg for alms. He sat cross-legged by the stone cross at the centre of the common. With his bowl before him he self-consciously assumed an expression of saintly resolve. Many village folk passed but none so much as threw him a glance.
He took to loudly blessing the passers-by and then began to sing psalms but as he didn’t know many he tailed off and simply held up his bowl. By the afternoon he’d acquired two farthings and a foreign coin.
Perkyn had taken a position on the other side of the common and was now surrounded by a knot of people. Jared got to his feet and went to see what the attraction was.
He heard a heart-rending tale of woe, and the piteous sight of the crippled pilgrim Perkyn supporting himself on his staff would have moved the hardest of hearts.
And it did – five groats, thirteen pennies and two loaves of bread.
‘For all love, Perkyn! We eat well tonight by your good grace.’
It was not to be. Some miles further on, the rain spattered then sheeted down and a fast run to a field barn saved them a soaking. It didn’t ease off until evening and there was little for it but to stretch out in the hayloft, making the best of their loaves and a little hoarded cheese before settling down for the night.
They were discovered in the morning and sent off after a fine mess of pottage and with apples for the road.
‘We must be close to Woodstock,’ Jared grumbled after some hours of trudging along a windswept ridgeway.
The trail descended into a valley and a gently wreathing fog. Its cold, clammy embrace enveloped them and the meandering trail was hard to follow without being able to see ahead. They stumbled on, not even the sun’s direction to aid them, but then came the sound of church bells right ahead.
It was the church of St Mary Magdalene, Woodstock.
Jared and Perkyn were weary and their feet ached but they had arrived. They had but to find the hospice to join the main route for pilgrims to the south.
Woodstock was a pretty town, the highway and square clean and well found.
A friendly passer-by told them that their hospice was further down the road. It was a substantial, stone-built churchly structure. They pulled the bell rope and were met by a lay brother and welcomed in. A milestone on the road to Jerusalem had been reached.
Inside there were fellow pilgrims – men and women, old and young, and from the evening meal tables they called a welcome.
Now part of a pilgrim band they would never be alone again, nor be lost or fear for robbers.
They were on their way!