Angels in the Architecture (18 page)

‘What about
you, Alard?’

‘Wer’ all a myst’ry t’ me,
sir. Ah ne’er seen nuthin’.’

‘Did yi’ see rock comin’
at Thomas?’

‘Naw
, sir.’

‘Well
, what could possibly stir someone t’ such a thing? The boy’s ne’er hurt anyone. I tell yi’, Gamel, there’s a nasty air ’bout these last days.’

‘Folk ‘r’
scared, Benne’. An’ folk’ll do all sorts when they’re scared I reckon. Bu’ this ain’ right.’

‘Folk’ll just be lyin’ low
’gain, as they’ve done last week or so. No one wants trouble, but it’s their superstitions create the trouble.’

‘Well
, ah’ll be lyin’ low m’self, I’d say. We’ll be get’n’ away, Bennet. Thank yi’ for yi’ kindness. Yer a good man, Benne’, an’ a smart’r one than most.’

Their dried clothes were fetched
and Gamel carried his now whimpering boy to their cart. Bennet drew his own horse to the back of Gamel’s cart and rode with them to their home so that Gamel might comfort the boy in the back, and so Bennet might also then reassure the mother on the son. Their way was steady, thoughts of their poor day at the market returning to beleaguer Gamel anew. He would hand the child to its mother and dispense with his caregiver role. It was uncomfortable for him now and he discerned also that he would not – should not – take the boy with him to the town again. It was in Gamel’s nature to go in the flow of things and never to rebel or fight or cause trouble with anyone. Even as he’d been wronged he would forget the event and his ordinary life would resume. If he took the boy to the town again he would be inviting trouble, since clearly it would not be in anyone’s mind now to leave suspicion behind them. Gamel had no mind to remind people of such or make himself its object.

When
later Bennet Williams rode back to the town, he felt yet again a pall over the town that was not the sort to hold any promise of cooling rain.

At the home of
young Euan Draper, Euan’s grandmother Berta, who kept his house and took care of his two young children since his wife had died a year earlier, sat in a rocking chair slowly and confidently apprising her grandson with the quandaries that seemed to her to have arisen to seize their small village’s regard.

She had stood at the e
dge of the crowd that afternoon and just as a rock had struck the innocent boy so had Berta been struck with the recognition of events unfolded and unfolding. Had she not forewarned of catastrophe at the dying of the Swan a few days before? And so she beheld a line of events from the past to the present and into the future.

‘It’s not an easy thing this unfold’n’ of time, the way
’as God weaves it all together, in a fine mesh. Folks think i’s all one thing follows ’nother, but naw, i’s all a complicat’d thing.’

It had never in all the history of the universe taken an educated person to be able to see, sense, hear things that were unseen, unseeable,
and silent. Indeed, it was education and experience in the ways of the world that obstructed the senses of most to any likelihood of unseen, unheard messages. For those who could tell of it – which was few – some thought it was of God, some of the Angels, and some of the Devil. Others knew it was none of these things but a heightened sense of the finer Energies of the Universe, and an understanding of Nature and her ways of whispering and shining and bending events in history upon each other, laying a clear path heading into the past and the future that anyone may see if they knew how, and if they knew what to make of it.

Not being educated though made it always difficult for one such
as Berta to give an explanation to others of what they knew, or more to the point,
how
they knew what they knew. And so generally, she didn’t bother with trying to explain. She would pronounce what she knew, and if none saw anything in it then she didn’t mind so much.

Being town
dwellers, the small house didn’t have the same smells of animals and the dirt of a peasant’s hovel, but it was as small and dark and almost as bare. There was the same constant open fire which added more smoke to the place than was good for anyone, and the constant smell of a stew always simmering. Berta had made the place her own and now Euan often felt the guest. The rules for what was minded had become her rules and he kept to them rather than have the scratch of her tongue which once it set to was not short in stopping.

‘There’s a shakin’,’ Berta began
, ‘a dead great bird, and now an innocent attacked in a way as was very wrong. There’s a reasonin’ God has ’ere, but I can’t say as I’ve reckoned what ’tis yet.’

‘If you ask me i’s the devil’s work
, seems lark i’.’

‘Rubbish
, boy. No such thing as devil. Just them churchmen made tha’ up so as to keep you ‘n’ me in ther pockets. Naw, naw, i’s a plan on high. ‘N’ there’ll be more o’ business as folks won’ lark yet to be sure. Deaths there’ll be. Folks get’n’ killed. In some ter’ble ways. Ther’s a plan in i’ tho’. Ther’s a reason’n’ fer i’.’ Berta rocked in her chair, obviously pondering the meaning of events. That there was an explanation that bound everything together she knew as well as she knew the cracks and calluses in her own hands.

She put her head back, closing her eyes, seeing much of what was yet to pass. And even seeing what was still to pass that had already happened. Now how would one such as she explain that strangeness to anyone who would not think her mad or bedevilled. Berta knew well that one could see the future in the present and the past, and the past in the future, and all manner of orderings of time. She even knew that even as she’d seen the future come to be, that it was just as possible to change something already happened, if anyone understood too that each person had a power to do so.

Euan understood not a whit of her ramblings and paid no more heed except to acknowledge her with the occasional murmur. He cared nothing for her predictions and chose never to engage in any chat any villager would have with him about his grandmother. And to that end he preferred she limit her banter to the ears of those who also cared little, since he sought to protect his own and his children’s future and her place in it. After all, he really did need the old woman, and she did seem to mind a good house.

At the home
of Jared the Smith, young Peter, who had run from the scene of Thomas’s accident earlier to fetch the physician, was acquainting his family with events. His mother, Thilda, looked to her husband as the boy spoke, and they both knew a disquiet that, although it had them not in any grip of fear as yet, had them considering the extent of the rules they imposed that usually bound their young children close to their house. The boy thought everything of late exciting and mystical. His parents knew better than to get carried away with notions of portents or omens, but times were unsettled. Folk heard things – more than just these few things of the last week. There was always religious talk or rumours of foreign kings and wars that stirred folk and easily led to a violence or greed or threat of some sort or another.

Thilda also thought she would see if she could find a way to send some small token
to Alice Warriner, who she’d known since their childhood, and whose burden seemed at least as great as any woman’s. Thilda herself had just the one son left living and it would be a sore day for even a nasty old priest to take an only one, even it was for the cathedral and the glory of God.

Jared Smith
had sympathy likewise for Gamel Warriner as he knew the hardships of a family and poor trade. He thought he would have to soon press one or two of the villagers to settle their accounts with him as things were more than a little drowsy at his workshop the last week. It was a difficult business to take money on account from folk who had none. And harder still to take some small remaining animal or part of a crop, knowing some other child not his own would go hungry because of it..

When his parents weren’t watching and seemed engaged in some other
thing, Peter Smith slipped out through the smithies yard at the front of their small house. He was keen to meet his friends in the village and see what menacing pranks they may dream up. And he hoped one of them knew the identity of the afternoon’s assailant, or at least they might guess at it and decide for themselves whether to make of the person a hero or a new victim for their boyish pleasure.

At
the Thane’s manor, Lord Abelard received Father Taylor.

Abelard was a tall
powerfully built man who in different surroundings and clothes could have looked like one of his own peasants. He hunted, fought and went to war, and took part in any other kind of physical pursuit that guaranteed his strength and power over his peasants and any other Lord that posed a threat, which indeed most did if only for the King’s favour. He did not tolerate fools and the local priest irritated him to distraction. Unlike the priest though, Abelard had always been successful in currying favour with those who could provide him some benefit, and the priest certainly did that, maintaining as he did the souls and religious zeal of the masses. He wasn’t quite sure yet though whether recent events were something he should be particularly concerned about, and he eyed the priest for signs of weakness. He saw many and doubted the man’s ability to manage the populace. He would have to keep an eye on things himself. Fortunately he had sufficient men to bully and cajole on his behalf if need be.

The Lord
and the priest agreed on a hushed investigation into the origin of the afternoon’s attack. Abelard, less moved by events in the village or with its occupants, was more roused to discuss the appropriate punishment for a poacher caught that afternoon on his estate and held now in his stables. He was, as was known, inclined to public flogging, although he liked to encourage the villagers’ own self-righteousness by a turn in the stocks. He was disinclined to prison terms since it cost him in guard and keep, such as it was, and gave too much favour to idleness.

Father Taylor
knew his presence irritated Abelard and never wont to stay in the Lord’s company for more than was necessary, withdrew from the manor at the earliest moment. It did not seem to him that His Lordship would even notice, let alone care, should he find the agreed investigation waning. The stone-throwing was most likely a reaction of superstitious fools, hell-bent on finding another poor innocent to vent their fear upon. The idiot child seemed such a likely choice that it dawned on the priest how unusual it was that such a thing had not occurred before now. But then he supposed that it – the child – was surrounded always by its parents and brothers
,
well protected. And the father and mother were respected among the peasants.

No, he thought, perhaps he’d do better to put his energies into arranging the poacher’s punishment for
the Lord’s amusement. He knew he really ought to pray for the poor sod, but that was largely a pastime he kept to himself and for his own benefit.

Later that day
, when Hugh arrived at the small friary at the edge of the town, there were many tales to tell and concerns to digest. While much of what was told would lead simply to superstitious nonsense, there were new hardships to be borne and all combined among an ignorant mass to create trouble, or a good deal of concern for such. The attack on a child was evidence enough of such foolishness. Hugh’s apprehension grew as he saw the local priest finding a situation beyond his capacity to shoulder, and he focused his attention that evening on settling the man’s nerves and assuring him of his support, God’s guidance, and the transience of life’s trials. An unruly snake pit was brewing that the priest neither saw nor was capable of understanding, let alone managing. It was clear to Hugh that the man took a harsh view of most things and struggled with little heart to be truly pastoral in his outlook.

The Bishop
listened through the evening to the troubled man, soothing and advising. As always, he knew that his presence did indeed provide encouragement and peace, and he was grateful for the Lord’s gifts to him. He retired late and with a little too much wine under his belt for such an old man as himself. The next day would be trying enough. But even then he did not find sleep easily. Troubles gnawed at him. In these times, he knew more that were innocent, and even untarnished, would be victims. Even the priest had commented on the
annoying Jews
as though this was a flock of gulls come in from the sea instead of a law-abiding citizenry, and Hugh knew this opinion to be widely held. He urged the priest to consider all in his parish to be children of God,
especially
these, and that it would not be useful to peace to remark any further on any other such person or group in a similar manner.

‘We are all equal in
the Lord’s eyes,’ he’d encouraged the priest, although he wasn’t convinced the man understood him. Indeed, the priest seemed surprised that the Bishop would defend the Jews.

‘But it was they
who killed Our Lord, Excellency,’ Father Taylor had replied.

‘
Our Lord
was
a Jew, my son, and further it was the Romans of old who hunted and killed not only our Lord but his many followers for many years to come. The People of the Book are a good people, pious and obedient to the laws of our land. It does us well to protect and even honour them.’