World Without End: Part I – 1327
Gwenda was eight years old, but she was not afraid of the dark.
When she opened her eyes she could see nothing, but that was
not what scared her. She knew where she was. She was at
Kingsbridge Priory, in the long stone building they called
the hospital, lying on the floor in a bed of straw. Her
mother lay next to her, and Gwenda could tell, by the warm
milky smell, that Ma was feeding the new baby, who did not
yet have a name. Beside Ma was Pa, and next to him Gwenda’s
older brother, Philemon, who was twelve.
The hospital was crowded, and though she could not see the
other families lying along the floor, squashed together like
sheep in a pen, she could smell the rank odour of their warm
bodies. When dawn broke it would be All Hallows, a Sunday
this year and therefore a specially holy day. By the same
token the night before was All Hallows Eve, a dangerous time
when evil spirits roamed freely. Hundreds of people had come
to Kingsbridge from the surrounding villages, as Gwenda’s
family had, to spend Halloween in the sanctified precincts
of the priory, and to attend the All Hallows service at
daybreak.
Gwenda was wary of evil spirits, like every sensible person;
but she was more scared of what she had to do during the
service.
She stared into the gloom, trying not to think about what
frightened her. She knew that the wall opposite her had an
arched window. There was no glass—only the most important
buildings had glass windows—but a linen blind kept out the
cold autumn air. However, she could not even see a faint
patch of grey where the window should be. She was glad. She
did not want the morning to come.
She could see nothing, but there was plenty to listen to.
The straw that covered the floor whispered constantly as
people stirred and shifted in their sleep. A child cried
out, as if woken by a dream, and was quickly silenced by a
murmured endearment. Now and again someone spoke, uttering
the half-formed words of sleep talk. Somewhere there was the
sound of two people doing the thing parents did but never
spoke of, the thing Gwenda called Grunting because she had
no other word for it.
Too soon, there was a light. At the eastern end of the long
room, behind the altar, a monk came through the door
carrying a single candle. He put the candle down on the
altar, lit a taper from it, and went around touching the
flame to the wall lamps, his long shadow reaching up the
wall each time like a reflection, his taper meeting the
shadow taper at the wick of the lamp.
The strengthening light illuminated rows of humped figures
on the floor, wrapped in their drab cloaks or huddled up to
their neighbours for warmth. Sick people occupied the cots
near the altar, where they could get the maximum benefit
from the holiness of the place. At the opposite end, a
staircase led to the upper floor where there were rooms for
aristocratic visitors: the earl of Shiring was there now
with some of his family.
The monk leaned over Gwenda to light the lamp above her
head. He caught her eye and smiled. She studied his face in
the shifting light of the flame and recognised him as
Brother Godwyn. He was young and handsome, and last night he
had spoken kindly to Philemon.
Beside Gwenda was another family from her village: Samuel, a
prosperous peasant with a large landholding, and his wife
and two sons, the youngest of whom, Wulfric, was an annoying
five-year-old who thought that throwing acorns at girls then
running away was the funniest thing in the world.
Gwenda’s family was not prosperous. Her father had no land
at all, and hired himself out as a labourer to anyone who
would pay him. There was always work in the summer but,
after the harvest was gathered in and the weather began to
turn cold, the family often went hungry.
That was why Gwenda had to steal.
She imagined being caught: a strong hand grabbing her arm,
holding her in an unbreakable grip while she wriggled
helplessly; a deep, cruel voice saying “Well, well, a little
thief;” the pain and humiliation of a whipping; and then,
worst of all, the agony and loss as her hand was chopped off.
Her father had suffered this punishment. At the end of his
left arm was a hideous wrinkled stump. He managed well with
one hand—he could use a shovel, saddle a horse, and even
make a net to catch birds—but all the same he was always the
last labourer to be hired in the spring, and the first to be
laid off in the autumn. He could never leave the village and
seek work elsewhere, because the amputation marked him as a
thief, so that people would refuse to hire him. When
travelling, he tied a stuffed glove to the stump, to avoid
being shunned by every stranger he met; but that did not
fool people for long.
Gwenda had not witnessed Pa’s punishment—it had happened
before she was born—but she had often imagined it, and now
she could not help thinking about the same thing happening
to her. In her mind she saw the blade of the axe coming down
on her wrist, slicing through her skin and her bones, and
severing her hand from her arm, so that it could never be
reattached; and she had to clamp her teeth together to keep
from screaming out loud.
People were standing up, stretching and yawning and rubbing
their faces. Gwenda got up and shook out her clothes. All
her garments had previously belonged to her older brother.
She wore a woollen shift that came down to her knees and a
tunic over it, gathered at the waist with a belt made of
hemp cord. Her shoes had once been laced, but the eyelets
were torn and the laces gone, and she tied them to her feet
with plaited straw. When she had tucked her hair into a cap
made of squirrel tails, she had finished dressing.
She caught her father’s eye, and he pointed surreptitiously
to a family across the way, a couple in middle age with two
sons a little older than Gwenda. The man was short and
slight, with a curly red beard. He was buckling on a sword,
which meant he was a man-at-arms or a knight: ordinary
people were not allowed to wear swords. His wife was a thin
woman with a brisk manner and a grumpy face. As Gwenda
scrutinised them, Brother Godwyn nodded respectfully and
said: “Good morning, Sir Gerald, Lady Maud.”
Gwenda saw what had attracted her father’s notice. Sir
Gerald had a purse attached to his belt by a leather thong.
The purse bulged. It looked as if it contained several
hundred of the small, thin silver pennies, halfpennies and
farthings that were the English currency—as much money as Pa
could earn in a year if he had been able to find employment.
It would be more than enough to feed the family until the
spring ploughing. The purse might even contain a few foreign
gold coins, florins from Florence or ducats from Venice.
Gwenda had a small knife in a wooden sheath hanging from a
cord around her neck. The sharp blade would quickly cut the
thong and cause the fat purse to fall into her small
hand—unless Sir Gerald felt something strange and grabbed
her before she could do the deed…
Godwyn raised his voice over the rumble of talk. “For the
love of Christ, who teaches us charity, breakfast will be
provided after the All Hallows service,” he said.
“Meanwhile, there is pure drinking water in the courtyard
fountain. Please remember to use the latrines outside—no
pissing indoors!”
The monks and nuns were strict about cleanliness. Last
night, Godwyn had caught a six-year-old boy peeing in a
corner, and had expelled the whole family. Unless they had a
penny for a tavern, they would have had to spend the cold
October night shivering on the stone floor of the
cathedral’s north porch. There was also a ban on animals.
Gwenda’s three-legged dog, Hop, had been banished. She
wondered where he had spent the night.
When all the lamps were lit, Godwyn opened the big wooden
door to the outside. The night air bit sharply at Gwenda’s
ears and the tip of her nose. The overnight guests pulled
their coats around them and began to shuffle out. When Sir
Gerald and his family moved off, Pa and Ma fell into line
behind them, and Gwenda and Philemon followed suit.
Philemon had done the stealing until now, but yesterday he
had almost been caught, at Kingsbridge Market. He had palmed
a small jar of expensive oil from the booth of an Italian
merchant, then he had dropped the jar, so that everyone saw
it. Mercifully, it had not broken when it hit the ground. He
had been forced to pretend that he had accidentally knocked
it off the stall.
Until recently Philemon had been small and unobtrusive, like
Gwenda, but in the last year he had grown several inches,
developed a deep voice, and become awkward and clumsy, as if
he could not get used to his new, larger body. Last night,
after the incident with the jar of oil, Pa had announced
that Philemon was now too big for serious thieving, and
henceforth it was Gwenda’s job.
That was why she had lain awake for so much of the night.
Philemon’s name was really Holger. When he was ten years
old, he had decided he was going to be a monk, so he told
everyone he had changed his name to Philemon, which sounded
more religious. Surprisingly, most people had gone along
with his wish, though Ma and Pa still called him Holger.
They passed through the door and saw two lines of shivering
nuns holding burning torches to light the pathway from the
hospital to the great west door of Kingsbridge Cathedral.
Shadows flickered at the edges of the torchlight, as if the
imps and hobgoblins of the night were cavorting just out of
sight, kept at a distance only by the sanctity of the nuns.
Gwenda half expected to see Hop waiting outside, but he was
not there. Perhaps he had found somewhere warm to sleep. As
they walked to the church, Pa made sure they stayed close to
Sir Gerald. From behind, someone tugged painfully at
Gwenda’s hair. She squealed, thinking it was a goblin; but
when she turned she saw Wulfric, her five-year-old
neighbour. He darted out of her reach, laughing. Then his
father growled “Behave!” and smacked his head, and the
little boy began to cry.
The vast church was a shapeless mass towering above the
huddled crowd. Only the lowest parts were distinct, arches
and mullions picked out in orange and red by the uncertain
torchlight. The procession slowed as it approached the
cathedral entrance, and Gwenda could see a group of
townspeople coming from the opposite direction. There were
hundreds of them, Gwenda thought, maybe thousands, although
she was not sure how many people made a thousand, for she
could not count that high.
The crowd inched through the vestibule. The restless light
of the torches fell on the sculpted figures around the
walls, making them dance madly. At the lowest level were
demons and monsters. Gwenda stared uneasily at dragons and
griffins, a bear with a man’s head, a dog with two bodies
and one muzzle. Some of the demons struggled with humans: a
devil put a noose around a man’s neck, a fox-like monster
dragged a woman by her hair, an eagle with hands speared a
naked man. Above these scenes the saints stood in a row
under sheltering canopies; over them the apostles sat on
thrones; then, in the arch over the main door, Saint Peter
with his key and Saint Paul with a scroll looked adoringly
upward at Jesus Christ.
Gwenda knew that Jesus was telling her not to sin, or she
would be tortured by demons; but humans frightened her more
than demons. If she failed to steal Sir Gerald’s purse, she
would be whipped by her father. Worse, there would be
nothing for the family to eat but soup made with acorns. She
and Philemon would be hungry for weeks on end. Ma’s breasts
would dry up, and the new baby would die, as the last two
had. Pa would disappear for days, and come back with nothing
for the pot but a scrawny heron or a couple of squirrels.
Being hungry was worse than being whipped—it hurt longer.
She had been taught to pilfer at a young age: an apple from
a stall, a new-laid egg from under a neighbour’s hen, a
knife dropped carelessly on a tavern table by a drunk. But
stealing money was different. If she were caught robbing Sir
Gerald it would be no use bursting into tears and hoping to
be treated as a naughty child, as she had once after
thieving a pair of dainty leather shoes from a soft-hearted
nun. Cutting the strings of a knight’s purse was no childish
peccadillo, it was a real grown-up crime, and she would be
treated accordingly.
She tried not to think about it. She was small and nimble
and quick, and she would take the purse stealthily, like a
ghost—provided she could keep from trembling.
The wide church was already thronged with people. In the
side aisles, hooded monks held torches that cast a restless
red glow. The marching pillars of the nave reached up into
darkness. Gwenda stayed close to Sir Gerald as the crowd
pushed forward towards the altar. The red-bearded knight and
his thin wife did not notice her. Their two boys paid no
more attention to her than to the stone walls of the
cathedral. Gwenda’s family fell back and she lost sight of them.
The nave filled up quickly. Gwenda had never seen so many
people in one place: it was busier than the cathedral green
on market day. People greeted one another cheerfully,
feeling safe from evil spirits in this holy place, and the
sound of all their conversations mounted to a roar.
Then the bell tolled, and they fell silent.
Sir Gerald was standing by a family from the town. They all
wore cloaks of fine cloth, so they were probably rich wool
dealers. Next to the knight stood a girl about ten years
old. Gwenda stood behind Sir Gerald and the girl. She tried
to make herself inconspicuous but, to her dismay, the girl
looked at her and smiled reassuringly, as if to tell her not
to be frightened.
Around the edges of the crowd the monks extinguished their
torches, one by one, until the great church was in utter
darkness.
Gwenda wondered if the rich girl would remember her later.
She had not merely glanced at Gwenda then ignored her, as
most people did. She had noticed her, had thought about her,
had anticipated that she might be scared, and had given her
a friendly smile. But there were hundreds of children in the
cathedral. She could not have got a very clear impression of
Gwenda’s features in the dim light…could she? Gwenda tried
to put the worry out of her mind.
Invisible in the darkness, she stepped forward and slipped
noiselessly between the two figures, feeling the soft wool
of the girl’s cloak on one side and the stiffer fabric of
the knight’s old surcoat on the other. Now she was in a
position to get at the purse.
She reached into her neckline and took the little knife from
its sheath.
The silence was broken by a terrible scream. Gwenda had been
expecting it—Ma had explained what was going to happen
during the service—but, all the same, she was shocked. It
sounded like someone being tortured.
Then there was a harsh drumming sound, as of someone beating
on a metal plate. More noises followed: wailing, mad
laughter, a hunting horn, a rattle, animal noises, a cracked
bell. In the congregation, a child started to cry, and
others joined in. Some of the adults laughed nervously. They
knew the noises were made by the monks, but all the same it
was a hellish cacophony.
This was not the moment to take the purse, Gwenda thought
fearfully. Everyone was tense, alert. The knight would be
sensitive to any touch.
The devilish noise grew louder, then a new sound intervened:
music. At first it was so soft that Gwenda was not sure she
had really heard it, then gradually it grew louder. The nuns
were singing. Gwenda felt her body flood with tension. The
moment was approaching. Moving like a spirit, imperceptible
as the air, she turned so that she was facing Sir Gerald.
She knew exactly what he was wearing. He had on a heavy wool
robe gathered at the waist by a broad studded belt. His
purse was tied to the belt with a leather thong. Over the
robe he wore an embroidered surcoat, costly but worn, with
yellowing bone buttons down the front. He had done up some
of the buttons, but not all, probably out of sleepy
laziness, or because the walk from the hospital to the
church was so short.
With a touch as light as possible, Gwenda put one small hand
on his coat. She imagined her hand was a spider, so
weightless that he could not possibly feel it. She ran her
spider hand across the front of his coat and found the
opening. She slipped her hand under the edge of the coat and
along his heavy belt until she came to the purse.
The pandemonium faded as the music grew louder. From the
front of the congregation came a murmur of awe. Gwenda could
see nothing, but she knew that a lamp had been lit on the
altar, illuminating a reliquary, an elaborately carved
ivory-and-gold box holding the bones of St Adolphus, that
had not been there when the lights went out. The crowd
surged forward, everyone trying to get closer to the holy
remains. As Gwenda felt herself squashed between Sir Gerald
and the man in front of him, she brought up her right hand
and put the edge of the knife to the thong of his purse.
The leather was tough, and her first stroke did not cut it.
She sawed frantically with the knife, hoping desperately
that Sir Gerald was too interested in the scene at the altar
to notice what was happening under his nose. She glanced
upwards and realised she could just about see the outlines
of people around her: the monks and nuns were lighting
candles. The light would get brighter every moment. She had
no time left.
She gave a fierce yank on the knife, and felt the thong
give. Sir Gerald grunted quietly: had he felt something, or
was he reacting to the spectacle at the altar? The purse
dropped, and landed in her hand; but it was too big for her
to grasp easily, and it slipped. For a terrifying moment she
thought she was going to drop it and lose it on the floor
among the heedless feet of the crowd; then she got a grip on
it and held it.
She felt a moment of joyous relief: she had the purse.
But she was still in terrible danger. Her heart was beating
so loudly she felt as if everyone must be able to hear it.
She turned quickly so that her back was to the knight. In
the same movement, she stuffed the heavy purse down the
front of her tunic. She could feel that it made a bulge that
would be conspicuous, hanging over her belt like an old
man’s belly. She shifted it around to her side, where it was
partly covered by her arm. It would still be visible when
the lights brightened, but she had nowhere else to put it.
She sheathed the knife. Now she had to get away quickly,
before Sir Gerald noticed his loss—but the crush of
worshippers, which had helped her take the purse unnoticed,
now hindered her escape. She tried to step backwards, hoping
to force a gap in the bodies behind her, but everyone was
still pressing forward to look at the bones of the saint.
She was trapped, unable to move, right in front of the man
she had robbed.
A voice in her ear said: “Are you all right?”
It was the rich girl. Gwenda fought down panic. She needed
to be invisible. A helpful older child was the last thing
she wanted. She said nothing.
“Be careful,” the girl said to the people around. “You’re
squashing this little girl.”
Gwenda could have screamed. The rich girl’s thoughtfulness
would get Gwenda’s hand chopped off.
Desperate to get away, she put her hands on the man in front
and shoved, pushing herself backwards. She succeeded only in
getting the attention of Sir Gerald. “You can’t see anything
down there, can you?” said her victim in a kindly voice;
and, to her horror, he grasped her under the arms and lifted
her up.
She was helpless. His big hand in her armpit was only an
inch from the purse. She faced forward, so that he could see
only the back of her head, and looked over the crowd to the
altar, where the monks and nuns were lighting more candles
and singing to the long-dead saint. Beyond them, a faint
light showed though the big rose window at the east end of
the building: dawn was breaking, chasing the evil spirits
away. The clangour had stopped, now, and the singing
swelled. A tall, good-looking monk stepped up to the altar,
and Gwenda recognised him as Anthony, the prior of
Kingsbridge. Raising his hands in a blessing, he said
loudly: “And so, once again, by the grace of Christ Jesus,
the evil and darkness of this world are banished by the
harmony and light of God’s holy church.”
The congregation gave a triumphant roar, then began to
relax. The climax of the ceremony had passed. Gwenda
wriggled, and Sir Gerald got the message and put her down.
Keeping her face turned away from him, she pushed past him,
heading towards the back of the crowd. People were no longer
so eager to see the altar, and she was now able to force her
way between the bodies. The farther back she went, the
easier it became, until at last she found herself by the
great west door, and saw her family.
Pa looked expectantly at her, ready to be angry if she had
failed. She pulled the purse out of her shirt and thrust it
at him, glad to get rid of it. He grabbed it, turned
slightly, and furtively looked inside. She saw him grin with
delight. Then he passed the purse to Ma, who quickly shoved
it into the folds of the blanket that wrapped the baby.
The ordeal was over, but the risk had not yet passed. “A
rich girl noticed me,” Gwenda said, and she could hear the
shrill fear in her own voice.
Pa’s small, dark eyes flashed anger. “Did she see what you did?”
“No, but she told the others not to squash me, then the
knight picked me up so I could see better.”
Ma gave a low groan.
Pa said: “He saw your face, then.”
“I tried to keep it turned away.”
“Still, better if he doesn’t come across you again,” Pa
said. “We won’t return to the monks’ hospital. We’ll go to a
tavern for our breakfast.”
Ma said: “We can’t hide away all day.”
“No, but we can melt into the crowd.”
Gwenda started to feel better. Pa seemed to think there was
no real danger. Anyway, she was reassured just by his being
in charge again, and taking the responsibility from her.
“Besides,” he went on, “I fancy bread and meat, instead of
the monks’ watery porridge. I can afford it, now!”
They went out of the church. The sky was pearly grey with
dawn light. Gwenda wanted to hold Ma’s hand, but the baby
started to cry, and Ma was distracted. Then she saw a small
three-legged dog, white with a black face, come running into
the cathedral close with a familiar lopsided stride. “Hop!”
she cried, and picked him up and hugged him.
This is taken from the second draft of “World Without End”.
The final version may differ.