Pilgrimage

By Trevor Whitton

France, 1295. Jean Bellimont leads a quiet, contented life as scribe to the Bishop of Troyes and husband to his wife, Marguerite. Suddenly his world is turned upside down when he is accosted by a small beggar woman on his way home from work one evening. He retaliates by knocking her to the ground – then watches appalled as her lifeblood ebbs away before his eyes. Looking up, he meets the gaze of the woman’s young daughter watching from the shadow of a nearby doorway. He flees the scene in a blind panic, but is later overcome with remorse. His guilt becomes so overwhelming that he eventually realises there is only one path to redemption – to undertake a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella.

Thus the little scribe is forced to leave his wife and children to undertake a life-changing journey. On the way he is charged with retrieving a stolen relic, becomes involved in deadly disputes between the Church and heresy, and befriends a nun, a former crusader, a heretic, and a hunchbacked dwarf.

With parts of the novel based on historical fact (including details of the pilgrimage route to Compostella, Cathar heretics, and the second Crusade), the novel draws a convincing picture of a 13th century pilgrimage, wrapped within a compelling story of true drama lasting right up to the final page.

Pilgrimage is the first of the Jean Bellimont novels.

What some readers have had to say:

"Remarkable story of great historical value. Stunningly realistic description of the Christian world in the middle ages."

"What an ending!!! I enjoyed this book so much."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trevor Whitton
• Release date: Jan 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465959966

Trevor Whitton

I am a retired recruitment consultant with a strong interest in European medieval history, and endeavor to weave that knowledge into my story lines. My travels throughout Europe (and particularly France) over the past thirty years allows me to bring a first hand account of the places I describe, and provides an air of authenticity to my narrative. I am a passionate and committed writer, and Pilgrimage is the first of a trilogy featuring Jean Bellimont, Scribe of Troyes.

Book preview

Part 1:

Penance

Prologue

Spring - 1295

It is said that all great journeys begin with a single step, but in the case of Jean Bellimont, scribe to the Bishop of Troyes, it began with one brief, impulsive act.

It happened as he was returning home one dismal winter’s evening. Fog clung to him like a dark, damp blanket, and his mood as he plodded through the streets was as dour as the night itself. Earlier that week he’d somehow managed to displease Bishop Guichard, and today it had all come to a head. He’d been rebuked in front of his colleagues, and the anger and humiliation still rankled. He trudged along the Rue Saint Denis deep in thought, counting the injustices inflicted on him. The flickering lamps created a halo of light in the mist, and his lone footsteps echoed between the surrounding buildings. Smoke from the surrounding chimneys swirled downwards into the narrow lane, and the only sound accompanying him was the steady clip-clopping of a single horse and cart from somewhere nearby.

Suddenly, his introspection was brought to an abrupt halt by a figure lunging at him out of the gloom. Before he knew what was happening, the stranger had snatched the purse hanging from his belt and was disappearing back into the darkness. Jean was driven by desperation. The purse contained his monthly wages, and he had little enough money to provide for his family as it was. Instinctively, he clutched at the retreating figure and was only just able to grab hold of their sleeve. In a sudden, uncharacteristic fit of rage, he tugged at the garment as violently as he could. His assailant fell and, with a sickening crack, struck their head against the sharp corner of a doorstep.

Jean took several long, deep breaths in order to steady himself. He gathered his wits amidst a swirl of emotions and slowly – reluctantly – bent down to inspect the recumbent figure. It was a thin, frail beggar woman - her blood flowing crimson down the steps and into the gutter. He pulled away in horror. Then, as he watched his victim’s life slowly ebbing away, he heard a sharp intake of breath from further inside the doorway. As his eyes adjusted to the deeper gloom, he could just make out the figure of a small child. She uttered a single word – terrified and barely audible:

‘Mama!’

For a brief moment Jean couldn’t move. The two stood staring at each other – frozen in horror at the sight of the dying figure lying between them. The spell was broken as Jean heard footsteps approaching from out of the fog. To his undying regret and shame, he panicked and took flight – leaving the tiny girl alone to fend for herself as best she could. Stunned and disorientated, he stumbled like a blind man through the dark, narrow lanes - the fog seeming to grow thicker with every step.

After wandering aimlessly for almost an hour, he was eventually brought to his senses by the booming of the Cathedral bells tolling high above him. The sound was thunderous in the confined space of the narrow lane, but at least he now had his bearings. He didn’t stop running until he’d arrived safely home and had bolted the door securely behind him.

Over the following days his guilt grew until it was unbearable. He was appalled with the knowledge that what he had done could never be undone, and that there was no compensation he could offer to atone for his crime. He couldn’t give the victim back her life, nor could he give the orphan back her mother. He lay awake at night dwelling on what had happened, and wondering what would become of him if he was identified and arrested. Loss of liberty and separation from his family – these were consequences he couldn’t bear to contemplate. Some days he was convinced that he would never again know true happiness.

These feelings became so all-consuming that he eventually became obsessed with the fear of discovery, and began neglecting his professional duties and family. He was constantly looking over his shoulder and jumping at sudden noises, and imagined that everyone was looking at him with suspicion. He tolerated it for as long as he could, but in the end it was clear that he could not continue in this way. He came to the conclusion that divine absolution was his only hope, and that this could only be achieved by undertaking a pilgrimage.

Chapter 1

When Jean first broached the subject with his employer, Bishop Guichard was adamant:

‘Pilgrimage? I can’t let you go off on a pilgrimage! Do you know how long it will take you to go to Santiago de Compostella and back? How will I replace a scribe? The business of the Church will suffer. No, I'm sorry Jean, it's impossible.’ Jean knew that to change the Bishop's mind he would have to offer him some personal benefit. After several days consideration he struck upon an idea. He presented himself once more at the Bishop's office and bowed his head respectfully.

‘Pardon my intrusion, Your Excellency. Can you spare me a moment of your time?' Guichard waved him to a nearby seat and waited impatiently.

'A moment is all I have. Please make it quick.'

'Of course,' said Jean. 'I've been giving further thought to our recent conversation, and realise that I can undertake this pilgrimage on your behalf. It's not at all uncommon - just yesterday a friend told me about his brother who visited Vezelay to help their elderly father overcome his failing sight. I’ll be visiting countless shrines along the way, anyway – more than enough to benefit the both of us.' The Bishop hesitated, but was still unconvinced.

'There's still the question of your replacement. I've told you...'

'I’ve spoken to my colleagues,’ Jean interrupted, his eagerness momentarily overcoming propriety. ‘and they're willing to cover the bulk of my duties between them. As for the rest, I promise to clear any backlog upon my return.’ Guichard began to waver. After all, the advantages to be gained from a pilgrimage – even one taken by proxy – were far from insignificant.

‘I suppose I should support my staff in all things spiritual,’ he said thoughtfully, tapping his chin. He glanced out the window at the unfinished buttresses of the Cathedral and grew pensive. Jean suppressed a smile. He knew his Bishop well. He was not a man without his faults, but he also had a conscience. His predilection for granting favours to those closest to him was well known, but at least he had the grace to feel the occasional bout of guilt for his behaviour. For such a man the idea of having someone else do the work to atone for his sins held considerable appeal.

Jean continued to press his case over the next few weeks. The Bishop dwelt long and hard on the advantages of such an arrangement, and finally the matter was resolved to their mutual satisfaction. In the end he even agreed to fund his scribe's journey. Jean took his success as a sign that the Lord had given the plan His blessing - although he also realised that it was going to be a much more difficult proposition selling the idea to his wife. He prevaricated for days before finally summoning the courage to tell her, and deliberately waited for an evening when the family were seated together around the supper table. He let his gaze fall upon them all one by one – his wife Marguerite, brother Gastolde, and children Claude and Janine - then, taking a deep breath and placing his trust firmly in the hands of fate, he delivered his news:

‘I have something to tell you all,’ he began uneasily. Four faces looked up from their meal and looked at the little man blankly. Jean stared at the table – unable to meet their eyes. ‘I’ve decided to go on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella.’ His revelation was followed by a stunned silence. Marguerite and Gastolde looked at each other as if unsure that they’d heard him correctly. After a brief pause, Marguerite asked:

‘Alone?’ Jean nodded without saying a word. His wife struggled to maintain her calm. ‘Why?’

‘Many reasons. I just feel it’s something I need to do.’

‘Who’s Saint Iago, papa?’ asked Claude. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘It's Saint Jacques in our language, son,’ said Jean, grateful for the brief distraction.

‘There must be some reason, though - surely?’ said Gastolde, scowling at his brother’s abstruseness. Jean merely shrugged.

‘Where’s papa going?’ asked Janine, confused by what was happening.

‘Do you know what you’re suggesting?’ said Marguerite, ignoring her daughter and growing more alarmed as she realised her husband was serious. ‘You’d be gone for six months at least!’

‘It’s a very dangerous undertaking, Jean,’ said Gastolde. ‘And the consequences don’t just effect you. Have you thought about what would happen to Marguerite and the children if you didn't return?’ Gastolde was right, of course, and it was a situation Jean didn’t take lightly. If something were to happen to him – and it was common knowledge that many did not return - his family would be left destitute and without a provider. Having no answer, he continued to be silent – unable to find the words to placate their concerns.

‘You can’t just sit there and say nothing!’ screamed Marguerite, jumping to her feet and thumping the table. Jugs and plates scattered to the floor and the children began crying.

‘I...I can’t,’ said Jean, still unable to look at his wife. ‘What I’ve done...it’s too...’

‘Too what?’ demanded Marguerite. ‘Too awful to tell your wife? Such an action doesn’t exist, husband. Now tell me – I have a right to know.’

‘You owe them an explanation,’ said his brother angrily.

‘I’m sorry. My mind is made up,’ said Jean. ‘You must care for them in my place, Gastolde. And if anything does happen to me...’

‘Your children will never know why they were abandoned by their father,’ said Marguerite. ‘For the Lord’s sake – what have you done?’ As her demand was again met with silence, Marguerite decided it was time to show that she could be just as stubborn. ‘Very well. If you won’t see reason then I’m coming with you.’ Jean looked up at his wife and saw immediately that she meant what she’d said. His mouth opened as if to say something, then closed again as he realised the futility of arguing. ‘The children can stay with their uncle.’ Gastolde’s eyes opened wide in horror. He, too, knew that look - Marguerite was determined to carry out her threat. Eventually Jean saw the mess he had created and relented.

‘You’re right,’ he said miserably. ‘You should know what I have done. It’s just...so difficult. I can hardly admit it - even to myself.’

‘More difficult than leaving your family?’ said Marguerite. She still couldn’t believe that the man she loved could be guilty of any serious wrongdoing, and was certain he was over-reacting. Jean smiled across the table at his children.

‘Claude, Janine - please go outside while I discuss this with your mother and uncle,' he said kindly. If he had to confess what he'd done, there was no way he was going to do it in front of them. After they'd gone he turned to Marguerite. 'I killed someone.’ The room became absolutely silent. Outside they could hear the rattling of carts and the distant hum of the market – but within you could have heard a mouse fart.

‘You...killed someone?’ said Marguerite – not quite crediting what she had heard. ‘I don’t believe it!’ From the back of her mind crept the memory of his recent strange behaviour, however, and a numbing dread gripped her heart. Jean hung his head and shrugged.

‘It was a beggar woman – weeks ago, now. I didn’t intend...it was just a moment of rage, you see. I didn’t really...’ He took a deep breath and took a moment to compose himself before continuing. ‘She tried to rob me and I knocked her to the ground. She caught her head on the edge of a step and...' He stopped again and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to fight back the image of the dying woman. 'She had a young daughter with her, and I left her!’ he said at last, finally summoning the courage to meet his wife’s bewildered gaze. ‘I left her! Do you understand? I ran away, and now...’ he looked away and took another deep breath, determined not to let his emotions get the better of him. His voice had nearly dropped to a whisper by the time he’d regained control of himself. ‘I ran away and left her. And what will become of the child now? What will become of the child?’ Marguerite’s heart went out to her husband, but her pity was tempered with the instinctive need to protect her family.

‘What you've done sounds like it was a terrible accident, Jean, but that’s all it was – an accident. You can’t destroy your life – our lives – over this. Think of your own children.’ Jean shook his head emphatically.

‘That’s just it, you see. Every time I look at them, I think of the child I left orphaned.’

‘But...’ Jean got to his feet, and Marguerite could tell by the set of his jaw that his decision was not going to change.

‘And you’re wrong – it wasn’t an accident. For that one, brief moment I was only too aware of what I was doing. I intended to inflict injury, and I succeeded.’ He took her hand gently between his own and stroked it tenderly. ‘For the sake of my mortal soul, I need to do this. You must see that I’m right.’ After the briefest of hesitations, Marguerite gave a short, reluctant nod.

‘But I insist on coming with you.’ Jean said nothing, but continued to gaze into his wife’s beseeching eyes. At last she looked away. ‘No, of course I can’t,’ she said eventually, responding to his unspoken words. ‘I couldn’t leave the children.’ Having now heard all the facts, Marguerite's attitude had undertaken a subtle change. She had been quite prepared to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of why her husband needed to leave them, but, having gained that objective, she now realised that going with him would be a pointless and destructive gesture. Jean took her chin and forced her to look at him.

‘I swear I’ll return. All the furies of hell itself won’t prevent me.’ Marguerite's gaze didn't waver.

'You'll have me to answer to if you don’t,' she replied through gritted teeth.

The decision having now been taken, Jean spent several weeks procuring the provisions necessary for his long journey. He also registered with the Church and received his official pilgrim’s passport, and purchased a strong, reliable donkey that he named Annabelle. When he took the children to the stable to see her, they couldn’t hide their delight.

‘Can we keep her when you return, papa?’ asked Janine, as Claude stroked the demure animal’s back.

‘Perhaps – we’ll see,’ said Jean, knowing that they couldn't, but hoping to lessen their distress any way he could.

‘Will you be riding her papa?’ asked Claude.

‘Only if I have to, poppet. I bought her mainly to carry my belongings.’ As the children continued to fuss over the animal, a knot formed in their father’s stomach. How on earth was he going to find the strength to leave them? It was different with Marguerite – he could at least explain his reasoning to her. Claude and Janine were too young to understand. All they knew was that their father was going far away for a long, long time. Not for the first (or last) time, Jean cursed the unguarded moment which had brought him to this, and wished with all his heart that he could somehow change how matters stood.

One day Jean decided to visit Hortense, the town’s soothsayer. Usually he scorned such things – but this was an exceptional circumstance. She lived outside the town walls on the edge of the great eastern forest, and was busy sorting herbs when the stranger appeared in her doorway. She looked up briefly and gestured for him to enter, and Jean slowly took stock of her home. The walls were hung with dried animal heads and various pagan talismans, and consisted of but a single, poorly lit room.

‘What is it you want?’ she asked without preamble.

‘I want to know if I’ll return home safely from my pilgrimage.’ Hortense nodded once and left briefly to fetch a bucket from outside. Returning, she placed it in front of Jean and instructed him to spread a handful of the contents out on the table before him. He looked down at the offal in disgust. ‘Isn’t there another way?’ he pleaded.

‘No,’ said the soothsayer firmly. After a long hesitation and several deep breaths (through his mouth – not his nose), Jean plunged his hand amongst the entrails and did as the old lady asked. He nearly retched with disgust. The woman took it all very seriously, however, and frowned deeply as she inspected the result. Jean wondered how she could stand to have her nose so close to such a putrid smell, and then became worried at her continued silence. ‘You will return alive,’ she announced at last. Jean let out the breath he’d been holding, before realising that there was something more. The soothsayer’s face was solemn, and she shook her head gravely. ‘But someone very close to you will die.’

‘Who?’ said Jean.

‘I cannot tell.’ The old woman continued to gaze into the entrails, and Jean presumed she was trying to find an answer to his question. Her next words made it clear that it was something else she was looking at, however. ‘You will also undertake a great task – one which will be long and dangerous.’ Jean grew angry.

‘Of course I’m undertaking a great task, you stupid woman. I’m going on a pilgrimage! I don’t need a soothsayer to tell me that. Now look more closely and tell me who will die, for pity’s sake.’ The soothsayer looked at Jean for a long time without replying. Eventually she swept the offal back into the bucket and stood up to indicate their session was over. Jean stayed seated. ‘Well? Have you no answer for me?’ Now it was the old woman who grew angry.

‘I’ve told you already – I don’t know.’

‘You charged me two sous to tell me that I’m going on a pilgrimage? Some soothsayer!’ The old woman walked over to the door and held it open, gesturing for him to leave.

‘That is not what I said,’ she replied. Jean stood slowly and headed towards the doorway.

‘I will undertake a great task’ – what else could it mean?’ The old woman didn’t respond, but remained stony-faced.

Jean left feeling worse than when he’d arrived.

Marguerite still held onto the slim hope that she'd be able to change her husband's mind, and – although never doubting his determination - could not quite bring herself to believe that he would leave. She stayed awake all night crying on the eve of his departure, and by morning was exhausted. Even as she accompanied him to the church of Saint Madeleine to pray for his safe journey and return, she was unable to accept that he was actually going.

‘I understand why you feel you need to do this,’ she said desperately, ‘But won’t Confession do just as well?’ Jean was silent for a long time, but as they turned into the narrow street leading to the church he finally replied:

‘You know that Pere Anton will only instruct me to surrender myself to the Bailli – or worse.’ Marguerite managed a laugh.

‘Worse than going all the way to Compostella? I don’t think so.’

‘Anyway, I’ve prayed long and hard and believe that I’m following the will of Our Lord. Nothing will deter me – not even you. I’m sorry.’

‘And what if you don’t return? You heard what Gastolde said – the route to Santiago de Compostella is extremely dangerous. I don’t think you realise...’

‘I know very well the dangers involved. I can only say to you that I’ll be careful.’

‘You must promise me that you’ll only travel in large groups – never alone. And don’t trust anyone.’ As the pair stepped through the doorway and entered the dimly lit church, Marguerite realised that, with these words, she was finally letting go of her husband. Tears welled up in her eyes.

They sat solemnly throughout the service, and, after Jean had made his confession (leaving out the details of his worst sin, of course), the couple returned home in miserable silence. Parting was promising to be so difficult that Jean actually began to doubt his resolve, until he glimpsed Bailli Dubois in the distance and his guilt and terror returned twofold. It was a timely reminder of the reason for his pilgrimage, and all doubt quickly disappeared.

No one said a word as he completed his preparations for departure. When the time finally came to leave, he embraced his wife, children and brother, took one last look at his comfortable home, then turned abruptly and walked away.

‘Take care, husband,’ shouted Marguerite after his retreating back. Jean couldn’t bear to reply – it was all far too painful. Tears streamed down his face as he led Annabelle passed the half finished Cathedral (its bulk enormous next to the small alleys and houses surrounding it), the Inn in which he drank with his friends (who hailed him as he passed and wished him Godspeed), the beautiful new church of Saint Urbain (with its fine, intricate stonework), the busy, bustling marketplace, and from there towards the old Jewish quarter. Eventually he passed through the south gate and out into the countryside beyond, wondering if he would ever return to see his beloved home and family again.

Chapter 2

Cesar Genet was a desperate man at the end of his tether. Two years earlier he had been a successful and respected carpenter with a comfortable house in the centre of Reims, a fair wife and hale son, and not a care in the world. Although it was not quite true to say that his trade had been flourishing, there were promising opportunities opening up for him nevertheless, and he had every reason to be optimistic about the future.

He couldn’t remember exactly when the voices had started – he’d hardly even noticed them at first - but eventually they became more and more persistent until he could no longer ignore them. He remembered the day his wife Ana had first become aware of his affliction, however, and would never forget the look of horror and fear in her eyes. He'd made the mistake of responding out loud to his unseen menace, not realising that she had entered the room behind him.

‘Who were you talking to?’ she demanded – suspicious already in light of his bizarre recent behaviour. He was taken off guard and could only stare at her guiltily. Somehow that one look had disclosed all that Ana needed to know. It wasn’t long before she’d become concerned enough to leave, threatening to take their son with her.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he’d said. ‘Where would you go?’

‘There’s plenty of room in my father’s house,’ she had replied. Cesar began to panic. He could see his world crumbling about him.

‘If you leave I’ll only send the Bailli to bring you back,’ he had warned. ‘You know it’s not possible for a wife to run away from her lawful husband like that.’ But Ana was a smart woman and had already considered her position carefully. She knew that – technically – the law was against her, but she had a powerful bargaining tool at her disposal.

‘And if you try to force me back I’ll tell everybody that you’ve been possessed by devils. Where do you think that would leave you?’ Genet knew very well where it would leave him – in an extremely vulnerable position and likely enough locked away for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t have believed that life could get any worse, until he watched on helpless as his wife gathered up their son and walked out the door.

It wasn’t long after when he discovered his concentration lapsing. His chisel slipped at work one day and nearly removed his left eye, and he realised that it was too dangerous to carry on. He was forced to abandon his livelihood, and life had become all but intolerable.

Then, one day, a new voice cut in above the others – a sweet, gentle voice so different from the rest that it took him by surprise. Although he had never been particularly devout, he was as certain as he could be that its origin was divine. It told of the mercies of God, and that his torments would cease if he undertook a pilgrimage. Immediately the other voices became slightly fainter, and for the first time in many years he experienced a glimmer of hope. He certainly had no reason to remain in Reims, and the promise of relief was too great to ignore. That same day he began organising his pilgrim’s passport, and was on his way within a week.

No one noticed the strange man’s departure as he made his way south towards Santiago de Compostella.

Chapter 3

The road was busy, but Jean’s thoughts were far away. Was the soothsayer right? Would someone he knew die before he returned? If so, who? Marguerite? Gastolde? One of the children? And what of this ‘great task’ – was she just referring to his pilgrimage, or something else? More than once he almost turned to go back, but the terror of discovery was too fresh in his mind. He found himself going over and over the events of that fateful night all those weeks ago, trying to make sense of it all. Or perhaps he was trying to find some excuse or defence for his actions – anything to make the guilt go away and allow him to return home. He plodded on unhappily, praying that one day he would return along this same road – reconciled with his sin and a contented man once more.

He was still miserable when he stopped for the night at an Inn. Fortunately, his first day’s journey had been relatively easy, although he’d found the heat tiring. He tethered Annabelle outside and entered through a doorway so low that even a short man like Jean had to stoop to avoid knocking his head. The place was busy, but he had little trouble catching the attention of the Innkeeper.

‘Do you have a bed for the night?’ he asked timidly, holding up his pilgrim’s pass. The Innkeeper examined the document suspiciously, before flashing the dusty traveller a welcoming smile.

‘Certainly. Always room for a pilgrim here.’ Jean was shown to a passably clean dormitory at the back of the Inn where three other patrons eyed him briefly, before turning back to their own pursuits. He sat down on his cot and fell into a deep reverie. His spirits were low and sank even lower as he considered the prospect of the long journey ahead. Eventually the exertions and emotional strain of the day took their toll and he drifted off into a deep but fitful sleep.

Despite the restlessness of the night, Jean rose refreshed and rejuvenated early the next morning. He breakfasted on beer and – a luxury he hadn’t been expecting - fresh bread, paid his bill, collected Annabelle, and left the Inn a much happier man than when he’d arrived.

The morning was cool, with thin strands of mist swirling in the lower lying gullies, but with the promise of another warm day to come. Jean was discovering that his donkey was a pleasant-tempered, companionable beast, and began passing the time by talking to her.

‘And what do you think about the idea of going all the way to Santiago de Compostella? It seems cruel to make you do it for my sake - but I need a beast and you need a master. It’s just a pity for you that I came along when I did, isn’t it? All I can do is promise to treat you kindly.’

As the day progressed, they passed seemingly endless miles of corn and wheat fields, interspersed with the occasional vineyard. Jean stopped now and then to talk to fellow travellers and labourers, occasionally taking the opportunity to rest under the shade of a tree and share the latest news and gossip. The traffic continued to be heavy, as carts and horses laden with vegetables, wine, and textiles travelled to and from the major trading centres of Troyes and Auxerre. At midday he stopped by a small stream and removed his sandals to soak his aching feet. He shared the grassy bank with a young farmer returning from selling his turnips and radishes in the market of the nearby village of Saint Genevieve.

‘I see you’re a pilgrim – where are you headed?’ he asked.

‘Compostella,’ said Jean.

‘A long way!’

‘Several months walking, at least,’ Jean agreed.

‘You meet pilgrims all the time on this road, of course. Heading to Vezelay, first, then on to Compostella, Rome - even Jerusalem.’

‘And do you see them return?’

‘Some – not very many,’ said the boy. ‘They all have strange stories to tell, though.’ He took some grain from his pocket and began feeding it to Annabelle - who responded by knocking his hat off.

‘What stories?’ said Jean, keen to gather as much information as he could. The labourer leant on his fork and scratched at his sparsely bearded chin for a moment, before replying:

‘The worst people, they say, come from the area around the mountains on the frontier with the peninsula.’

‘The Pyrenees, you mean?’

‘Aye – that’s them. I’ve heard stories about them tricking, robbing, murdering, and even eating pilgrims. One or two of them have even told me that they fornicate with animals. Apparently they prefer sheep and dogs.’ Jean tried to imagine such people, but found it difficult to believe. The farmer saw the look on his face and laughed. ‘Don’t worry, just make sure you’re with a lot of friends by the time you get there - and be careful not to bleat or bark!’ After a while he asked Jean how he made his living.

‘I'm scribe to the Bishop of Troyes,’ said Jean. The farmer whistled appreciatively.

‘Sounds like an important job!’ Jean shrugged modestly and shook his head.

‘Not really.’ The young farmer was unconvinced, clearly believing that