The Village 1

(i)

 

As she left her dwelling and hurried towards the gaol, the girl heard the discordant
fanfare of the approaching procession. It was early morning and villagers were gathering in the market place to buy bread. Enthralled at the sight of strangers crossing the wooden bridge, the villagers neglected to hurl insults at the girl as she passed by. Instead they held their gaze at the oncoming group, crying out in exaltation.

 

The girl scurried behind a line of onlookers. Her long dark hair, decorated with straw and charms, obscured her face. Taking advantage of the commotion she collected two apples that lay on the ground, setting them into the folds of her long skirt. An old man, slumped against the village well, leered at her. The girl moved quickly on.

 

The noise of the approaching group of strangers intensified. A bald man led the way, dressed in a white robe that bellowed in the wind. Those behind him carried banners of gold and purple. Others, despite the cold, wore only loincloths and banged on drums. Perhaps they have come to act
out stories from the Bible, thought the girl. A troupe of theatre players had visited the village when she was young, and performed the story of Christ’s death on the cross. That had been in winter, when the fields were hard with frost. She tried to recall other bible stories but could think of none.

 

The girl climbed onto a stone wall and looked to where the old man was sitting. He was
clapping now and the threadbare blanket that had covered his shoulders lay on the ground. Other villagers were kneeling in prayer.

 

Soon, all of the villagers had come out of their dwellings to greet the strangers. . Yes, she could see now – some in the procession were holding wooden crosses. These, she thought, must be the men who were close to God.

 

Fearing that she would be pushed over, she prepared to jump down from the wall. But the sight of other men in the procession stopped her from doing so. These men wore masks and cowls. Whereas many skipped, played whistles and beat drums, these men hung their heads and dragged their feet. They carried long strands of twisted leather and the village children, running beside them, howled like animals snared in the forest.

 

A boy brushed against her and she fell to the ground, spilling the contents of her basket. The sight of the men in masks frightened her.

 

‘Flagellento! Flagellento!’

 

She looked up. The old man was standing close by. He was laughing and beating his chest
with his fists.

 

‘Flagellento! Flagellento!’ he shouted.

 

He leered at her and smacked his lips. The girl picked up her basket and ran through the crowd towards a ramshackle building near the church.

 

 

 

(ii)

 

The procession came to a halt in the market place. Only when the men in masks stood facing the crowd did the drums cease.

 

One of the leaders stepped forward. He wore a long grey beard and was very thin. In a strong accent he thanked the villagers for their offerings and made the sign of the cross. Then he said something in Latin that few people understood.

 

The Flagellants were ordered by him to remove their cloaks and masks. As they did so a few
of the onlookers laughed. Yet, when they had successfully removed their outer garments, silence descended. The flesh of these men was red and bloodied. Some had black sores on their backs. Others displayed open wounds. The villagers’ laughter transformed itself into cries of repulsion and admiration.

 

The girl, crouching in the doorway of a ramshackle building, could see little of what was
taking place. The crowd was too large. But she heard voices cursing sinners and unbelievers, proclaiming that the devil would take them and make them pay for their sins. Other voices cursed the race known as the Jews.

 

The front door of the building opened and a tall man stood over her. It was the village priest, Robert Wyclyffe.

 

The girl bowed her head.

 

‘What are you doing hiding in my doorway ?’

 

The girl looked up and pointed towards the crowd.

 

The priest frowned. ‘Yes. The Flagellants have arrived to entertain us with their
suffering. Do they scare you ?’

 

She placed her hands over her ears, as if to say yes, the men did scare her, especially their masks and the sores on their backs. Yet, not all the villagers were scared. Some people were crying out in rapture.

 

Robert Wyclyffe nodded. He had known the girl since she was a child and understood
the ticks and signs that helped her to communicate. He said: ‘It pains me to see so many in our village put under their spell. They are nothing more than a carnival, travelling like showmen from town to town. Let us console ourselves in the knowledge that the Holy Father frowns on their brutal ways.’

 

He looked down at the girl and touched her forehead in blessing. Parting her hair, he saw that her face was bruised and her eyes bloodshot. ‘Now, be on your way, Mattie. I fear this will not be a sight to relish.’

 

She did as she was told and scampered away, this time in the direction of the water
mill. Wyclyffe wondered who it was that had beaten her - a local boy, perhaps. The girl was always bruised and it saddened him to see her so. Why did the Lord see fit to punish such an innocent creature, he wondered. Could salvation be hers too ?

 

The sound of a scourge against flesh caused the crowd to gasp. Wyclyffe walked a few paces so as to get a better view. A number of the Flagellants were lying on their stomachs. The thin man with the grey beard was thrashing each one in turn, demanding that he confess his sins.

 

Wyclyffe watched as the other members of the group flailed themselves. With each stroke many of the villagers cried out, seeking mercy and forgiveness, pulling at their hair like souls possessed. This went on for some time – too long for Wyclyffe, who retired to the peacefulness of his lodging. He had no desire to see the strange men collapse with exhaustion, or the village square stained with their blood.

 

 

 

(iii)

 

At dusk, the last of the Flagellants moved beyond the forest that marked the far boundary of the village. The crowd had dispersed and the market place cleared of produce. Only the old man remained, rubbing a piece of cloth into the stains of blood. He tied the anointed cloth to his wrist,
believing it would help ward off evil spirits.

 

After her meeting with Robert Wyclyffe, Mattie hurried past the manor house to a stone building near the water mill. The building was in disrepair. The slate roof had fallen in and there was no door to dampen the wind. Inside, chained to a manacle, sat Mattie’s father.

 

She signalled to him as she approached – grinding two stones. He didn’t answer. Was he sleeping? She grew uncertain. She signalled once more and slowly walked into the darkness of the hovel. Then she heard the heavy sound of shackles as he moved.

 

He was sitting upright. He didn’t smile or greet her. As soon as Mattie set down the basket he pulled back the cover to see what she had brought. He was disappointed.

 

‘No meat ?’

 

Mattie shook her head.

 

He stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it down. He had been imprisoned for stealing and was awaiting summons from the Reeve. The tiny building smelled of urine and old hay.

 

‘What’s this ?’

 

Mattie looked at the bundle in her father’s hand. That morning she had caught a fish in the stream. She had scraped out its guts and left it to cook for too many minutes on the hearth.

 

He slapped her hand. 'Can’t you cook a fish ?’ he scowled and tore off a piece of the overcooked flesh.

 

Cowed, she began emptying the basket of its remaining contents: a small piece of ham, a jug of ale, the two apples - setting it all down on a cloth beside him.

 

He ate for a while in silence. Then he gestured to her to leave.

 

She got up and went out into the fresh air. Her hand was stinging. With the basket emptied, she ran past the water mill towards the village square, wondering what she could take her father the following day.