John the Pupil. David Flusfeder

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      As it says in my Master’s Book, We expect things to be different in different places: manners and intellectual interests vary according to the diversity of regions; the body is altered by the heavens and when the body is changed the mind is aroused.

      Brother Bernard stays close to me. Brother Andrew has to be admonished to remain with us, his attention is scattered upon the sights and sounds and smells of the harbour.

      Here, I tell him, it is your turn to be the donkey.

      Our load will tether him to the earth. We already carry too much. Our spoons and knives and bowls, my Master’s Book in its shining sealed box, the apparatus for demonstration to the Pope, our breviary, the secret thing in its humble container that we may not open. According to the rule of our Order, we are not meant to carry bags; each of us carries two.

      It is not hard to find our way. Pilgrims, jabbering, creeping, praying, mark the way in a slow penitential caravan. Until, suddenly, we are driven into the mud at the side of the road by the train of the great lord, riding four abreast on black chargers. His carts and oxen fill the road, as we try to restore order to our garments and our possessions. The seal on the box is unbroken. The apparatus is intact. My bag for the collection of treasures was emptied and I had to gather them from the road, combined with mud.

      Brother Bernard hurled clots of mud at the oxen and the lord’s servants, while I gathered my writing implements. I had thought I had chosen him for his strength and protection. Perhaps it was his soul I was concerned for, its safety, rather than that of my Master’s treasures or my body. I smoothed out my scraps of parchment, wiped off as much of the mud as I could with the sleeve of my cloak. I write this through the dirt of the road.

      Saint Hubert’s Day

      Hubert was a beautiful and courteous youth, noble-born, loved by all, whose single passion was for the hunt. On a Good Friday morning, when the virtuous were all inside church, Hubert was giving chase to a magnificent stag. The animal turned, and Hubert was stupefied to see a silver crucifix between its antlers, while at the same time a voice spoke these words, Hubert! Unless you turn to the Lord and lead a holy life, you will go quickly down to hell.

      Hubert gave all of his wealth away, entered holy orders, and for the rest of his life, he was diligent in fasting and prayer, became famed for the eloquence of his sermons, was a friend to the poor and a scourge of idolaters, whom he sought out with the same passion that once he had brought to his love of the chase.

      Our first night in Gaul, a night spent on the straw of a pilgrims’ hospice, the snoring and dreams of the sleepers, the straw beneath us never still, rustling and shaking with the movements of mice, while the sleepers scratched at the fleas and lice that assailed them like an army besieging a town.

      This is purgatory, Brother Bernard said shielding his eyes against the sunlight.

      That is heresy, Brother Andrew said.

      My throat and head were sore. I longed for my own bed, a less foul air, for a ministering remedy prepared by Master Roger.

      In the men around us it was hard to identify God’s pilgrims. The only sin that did not seem illustrated was the one of Pride.

      Our goods were safe. I untied the rope that bundled them together. Some of the pilgrims were sleeping. Others were praying. Two men scourged themselves in the foulest corner of the room.

      We recited matins on the road. And our hearts lifted as we sang,

       Blessed is the man who hath not walked in the counsel of the ungodly

       Nor stood in the way of the sinners

       Nor sat in the chair of pestilence.

       But his will is in the law of the Lord

       And on His law shall he meditate day and night

       And he shall be like a tree which is planted near running waters.

      Around us, God’s creation, the fields and trees, the birds, the stream we drink from. Let the friars take care not to appear gloomy and sad like hypocrites, but let them be jovial and merry, showing that they rejoice in the Lord, and becomingly courteous.

      More things have gone into my bag of treasure, which, if God decrees this journey prosperous, I hope to return to Master Roger full to overflowing, the bounty and reward for my Master’s trust in me.

      • • •

      Fires on the hillside at night, the lodging ground of a company of vagabonds and pilgrims, an unnatural band of wolves and sheep, who stare at us as we approach.

      Brother Andrew had no desire to proceed. Brother Bernard drove him on, we climbed the slope towards the fire. And as we approached, we heard a clinking, the dull repeating sound of his process, Simeon the Palmer amongst us.

      Light flickered on the faces around us, as Simeon the Palmer in his noisy costume acted the host in this fairy supper.

      You have eaten? You have food? I know, God will provide, and He has, His ways are many, and always marvellous, it is His work to look after His servants, a Father’s strength, a Mother’s care, sit with us, you will eat with us.

      Mindful of Brother Bernard’s suspicions (but he is always suspicious, he would interrogate the motives of an angel), I said that first we would need to make our own ground for the night. I have not yet collected many treasures for my Master, but the bag is not empty, and the work is a sacred one. And there is the bag with the Book, and there is the bag with the parts of the model for demonstration, and the secret package, for when hope is abandoned, and all of these I must keep secure. If I had just one bag to save, it would be easy to decide which it would be. The model is the fruit of our labour and study, but it is merely a thing, the Book is pure Thought, containing the wisdom of all times.

      I looked for a place to lay our goods, I looked for a place that was a soft place to be, a leafy bed between trees, free of slope or stones, where I might cover our precious things with soft earth, a landfall of fruit, a canopy of leaves and twigs. And I looked for a place where the eyes of the vagabonds would not follow me. The place was not to be found.

      You are very modest, Simeon the Palmer said mistaking the nature of my precautions. We are all men, which is the same as saying that we are all God’s creatures. There is a ditch away from the fire where we perform our necessary acts. No shame is attendant upon them.

      Even for a friar, said a raggedy fellow sitting near the fire.

      I left my bags with Brothers Bernard and Andrew (eyes downcast, skin reddened by the fire, the very image of the modesty that I was being accused of) who were already sitting by the fire with their expectant bowls. I walked down to the ditch, where I lifted my cloak and, unable to perform the act of voiding (my belly too empty, so many eyes upon me), waited in that position until I judged sufficient time had passed.

      Sit with us, brother, Simeon the Palmer said. Tell us about your journey. Did you ride?

      We are not meant to ride. Our Order forbids it.

      Our redeemer rode on a donkey. Are you saying you are better than He?

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