The Deadliest Sin

Epilogue

With the tale of pride, the seven deadly sins were finished. Although at the beginning of their stay the landlord of the Angel had suggested that the pilgrims might like to debate which of the sins was the worst, the very worst, there was a general feeling that such a difficult question was beyond the reach of human beings to decide. This was a matter best left to God. Besides, it was late and they were tired. In front of them, the pilgrims had the immediate prospect of a second night in the not uncomfortable beds of the inn and then, on the morrow, a resumption of their journey towards Walsingham.

Yet, tired as they were and even before the start of the next stage of their journey, they had been looking at each other with new eyes, a consequence of the stories that they’d heard. There was respect and pity for Janyn the veteran soldier and his tale of lust, and some amusement at David Falconer’s account of the man who’d been tricked into eating himself to death. The prior’s condemnation of sloth pricked the consciences of some. The misery and confusion produced by sin had been amply demonstrated by the stories of greed and envy, anger and pride.

The next day dawned bright. The sky had cleared and the rain-soaked ground was already drying out in the midsummer warmth. Rest, refreshment and a sunny morning gave new heart to the travellers, despite the tales of death and suffering that they had been hearing for the last two nights. Even the spirit-haunted Randal looked, for the time being, if not cheerful then at least not so despairing.

Perhaps the pestilence would never reach this corner of England, they dared to hope. Perhaps the intercession of Our Lady of Walsingham would protect them, each and every one, from the wrath of God, whether they counted themselves among the deserving or the… less deserving. There was a new vigour and determination in their movements as they prepared to set out once more for the shrine. The exception was Katie Valier who, with her young companion, was not bound for Walsingham at all but going in search of her de Foe ancestors in the area round Bishop’s Lynn. Nevertheless, she intended to keep company with the group for a while longer. And Prior John, of course, though travelling to the shrine, was making the journey not to atone for his own sins but to pass judgement on those of others in his order, a prospect that he relished.

The sense of kinship that had grown between the pilgrims at the Angel – or between most of them – during their two days and nights in Mundham was strong enough for the landlord to mention casually to his wife that he had it in mind to accompany the group to the shrine. What did she think? But, as far as Agnes was concerned, Laurence was required to stay at the Angel. She did not say this straight out but instead remarked that business was good. As long as summer lasted, and as long as the pestilence did not draw near, they might expect to host other passing groups of pilgrims. Perhaps Laurence would have the chance to exercise his storytelling skills again? All these things were true, but it could also be that Agnes was worried about what – or who – her husband might be tempted by once he’d escaped the bounds of home. Not all of the Walsingham pilgrims were pious or preoccupied with sin and salvation; some of the women were young, or at any rate not so old.

In compensation, Agnes arranged with Nicholas Hangfield, the shipping clerk, that he would bring them back a souvenir from Walsingham: it might be a wax effigy of the Mother and Child, blessed by the monks, or a flask filled with water from the Holy Well or, best of all, a little leaden pouch in which was sealed the sacred water mingled with a drop of the Virgin’s milk. Nicholas, who was a helpful sort of fellow, promised to do this. God willing, he was planning to pass through Mundham on his return to London, once he had paid his respects at the shrine.

So, bidding farewell to Laurence and Agnes Carter as they stood at the arched entrance to the Angel yard, the motley band moved off down the principal road through Mundham. Not for the first time, Laurence observed to his wife how remarkably sure-footed the blind man was. Until you got close to Master Falconer, you’d never have suspected his condition. Meanwhile, some of the inhabitants of Mundham came out of their houses or straightened up from working in their cottage gardens to stare at the passing parade. A few waved and others called out requests to the pilgrims to put in a good word for them at the shrine.

Soon, the road narrowed until it was more of a path, and they entered the woods that lay to the north of the village. Usually, this would have been a rather forbidding place – hadn’t there been some mention of outlaws hereabouts? – but this morning, the birds were singing and the sunlight spilled out in bright patches on the forest floor. Maybe some of the men touched the hilts of their knives more frequently than they would have done out in the open, even as the women chatted or laughed more insistently while they paced through the woods. But they all emerged safe and sound on the other side and breathed more easily because they now had a view of the road before them and the country on either side.

By the early afternoon, they reached Thetford. There, they heard that the group that had departed from Mundham almost two days before had not been so fortunate. This first group had been set on by outlaws in the very woods through which the pilgrims had just passed. No deaths resulted, but several of the party had been wounded or badly beaten by thieves taking advantage of the poor weather and fading light. The injured were being cared for in the infirmary at the Cluniac priory in Thetford. For the Mundham pilgrims, this sad story was a reminder of the perils that surrounded them on all sides, as well as of human wickedness, which had been their theme. Some felt sorrow but most experienced at least a moment of relief and thankfulness that they had not been part of that earlier company. They had chosen to stay behind and to talk and listen. Perhaps God was looking on them with favour after all…

Thetford was a meeting-point for other pilgrims and, as they all pressed forward towards Walsingham, the number of companies grew, so that if you had been able to fly up into the air and then look down from a sufficient height you would have seen them like a skein of streams and tributaries coming together in a greater river flowing towards the shrine of Our Lady.

Who knows how many will have their prayers answered at Walsingham, prayers for themselves and their families, for their towns and villages. Some will return home to find their kin or neighbours already struck down, as if in mockery of their piety. Others will survive the worst of the pestilence and count themselves lucky, only to fall victim as it seems to be in retreat.

One in three of the population will be dead by the end of 1349.

And what of the Mundham pilgrims, the tale-tellers? What of Janyn and Katie Valier, of blind Falconer and the stern-faced canon? Did Laurence and Agnes Carter continue to trade under the sign of the Angel? And Nicholas Hangfield, did he survive to call on them, as he’d promised, on his return to London? Was Randal, once a novice priest and now a broken man, to find any relief from his torment?

We cannot know. Their history stops here.

We have kept company with them long enough. They are part of that great crowd flowing towards Walsingham now, and not to be distinguished from the thousands of others making the same pilgrimage. All we can do is wish them Godspeed.