London - Edward Rutherfurd [167]
In the autumn of the year of Our Lord 1171, there was a great rejoicing in the house of Silversleeves.
“I’ve talked to the justiciar and to the Bishop of London in person,” Pentecost’s father was able to announce. “The king’s fight with the Church is dead. As for criminous clerks, he’s terrified of even mentioning them. You’re safe. You can even go back to the Exchequer.”
For the first time in many generations, they blessed the name of Becket.
That the world was full of wonders, Sister Mabel never doubted. God’s providence was everywhere. The astonishing revelation of Becket’s sanctity was, for her, just another example of a process that was all the more splendid because she could not explain it.
Even Alderman Bull’s angry promise to his brother, which the monk had not taken literally, was to her an article of faith. She knew Brother Michael was good. She knew Bull should not have acquired Bocton. “You’ll see,” she assured Brother Michael, “the hospital will get that legacy.”
“On my deathbed,” Brother Michael gently reminded her.
“That’s right,” she replied, cheerfully.
Yet even Sister Mabel was puzzled by the extraordinary event that took place on a bright, damp April morning in the year of Our Lord 1172.
She had been over to the Aldwych. She had heard there was a leper there, but she could not find him, and was just returning across the empty space of Smithfield when she saw an unusual spectacle.
It was a procession – a considerable one, coming down the western edge of Smithfield. The cortège was beautiful. A great company of knights and ladies on richly caparisoned horses led the way. Minstrels with pipes and tambourines ran beside them. Everyone seemed to be smiling and happy. Further behind, she could see, was a long procession of ordinary folk. But who could they be? What was the reason for this glittering throng? She stepped boldly forward and tried to ask one of the passing riders, but he rode by as though he had not seen her.
It was only then that she noticed the strange thing. Just before reaching the city gate, the sparkling company was vanishing.
She stared. There was no mistake. Horses and riders were dissolving as though they had passed into some unseen mist, or into the ground under London itself. Turning back to the horses passing by, she now realized something else. Their hooves were making no sound.
And then she understood. It was a vision.
She knew about visions, of course. Everyone did. But she had never expected to see one. To her surprise, she was not frightened. The riders, though she could almost touch them, seemed to be in a separate world of their own. Now she noticed that some of them were not knights and ladies, but humble folk. She saw a stonemason she knew, and a woman who sold ribbons. To her astonishment, she suddenly caught sight of one of the patients from the hospital dressed in a shining white robe, his thin face strangely serene.
After a little time, the riders had all passed by, but now came the mass of folk behind them. They were a very different crowd – all conditions of men and women, from furious fishwife to shattered lord. Most were on foot, their dress ragged, their faces wan. Beside them walked not minstrels but the strangest creatures Mabel had ever seen. They resembled men, except that they had long legs like a bird’s with claws for feet, and curved tails. They stalked beside the crowd, occasionally prodding them with the tridents they were carrying in their sinewy hands. Though their sharp, hard faces were human, Mabel noticed that they had different coloured skin – some red, some green, others mottled. “They must be demons,” she murmured, and stepping forward to a green-and-white one passing by she demanded: “What’s this procession?” And this time she had better luck.
“Human souls,” the creature replied in a nasal voice.
“Are they dead?”
“No. Living.” He