Sylvia (12 page)

‘Of course, and we will profit by it,' he promised.

I grew alarmed, wanting to be well away from these cantankerous folk. ‘I care only to be gone and do not wish to tarry,' I protested.

Reinhardt placed his hands upon my shoulders and looking into my eyes explained, ‘Sylvia, these are peasants, mean as rat shit, who would rather cut off their wrists than give alms. But now we have them afraid and compliant. They believe by being scornful of your miracle and demanding its verification by the sign of the fish, they have earned God's retribution whereupon a plague of rats descended upon them. Now they have seen how the Virgin Maid, showing them great compassion and mercy, has led the rats safely away into the woods. They will see this as your warning that worse may come if they do not henceforth treat you as Christ's child. We may expect from this contrite mob some generosity.'

‘But
you
did the rats,' I pointed out.

‘Nay, the flute made no sound that they could hear. We walked together, they will think it was you who led the rats into the woods.'

‘What do we do next?' I asked him.

‘We will return and take our place in the square and I will play and you sing.'

‘What, some of a Gloria?'

‘No, that later, a folksong will do well enough.'

‘Will they not be afraid to venture forth?'

‘Some, yes, but they now have a need for contrition and to express their respect for the Virgin Maid lest she return the rats. First the bravest will come and then the more timid. But you may be sure they will all be there, for they may now speak of two miracles, the coming of the birds and the prophecy of the rats.' He gave a rueful chuckle. ‘Three, if you count the crow shit!'

I giggled. ‘If they persist with calling me the Virgin Maid then I have a folksong about a virgin maid who lost her chastity under a linden tree.'

‘Ah, excellent! Is it named “Cursed be the Linden Trees”?'

‘Aye, you know it?'

‘I know the tune well. It is a minstrel's song and will serve as a cautionary tale to any village virgin who has thoughts of venturing down into the ripened corn, hand in hand with some randy clodpole.'

We walked back to the village, the piper playing a merry tune, along the main street and into the square. From all about fearful faces appeared at windows and through half-opened doorways.

Every once in a while the ratcatcher would pause from piping and call out. ‘Fear not, good folk! The rats are gone! We will sing and play for your great entertainment and then give thanks to God for this fruitful day!'

Once back in the square he started to play, although I did not yet sing. At first came the children, small boys ever the bravest, then the men and finally the women and girls, until the square was full and it seemed the whole village had returned. Some knelt in contrition, others stood with their heads bowed, an altogether chastened and silent crowd.

Reinhardt stopped piping and addressed the assembled villagers. ‘Good folk, you have seen what you have seen and now I ask you to pray privately for your own forgiveness. Let each bring his own conscience to God.' He grinned. ‘Or perchance a crow descends and craps upon your head!' This brought the crowd to laughter and much altered the mood, so that people now stood happily, relieved that they were not going to be punished. ‘As for the Virgin Maid, she has asked me to tell you that she bears no malice towards you, but cautions you to speak of the fish to no others. As for the rest, what you have seen with your own eyes cannot be denied. Now she craves your indulgence. There dwells a hermit, Wilfred of the Wilderness, in a cave near the great city of Cologne. He is the maid's teacher, a wise and holy man who preaches to the poor and succours the sick.' He removed his hat. ‘I shall pass this hat around and ask that you give alms, not for the Virgin Maid, but for her teacher's cause. I must remind you that she has rid your village of rats that can as easily return at her beckoning, so give with a generous heart to God's poor and infirm. Now the Virgin Maid will sing a cautionary tale, a poem for all who may, like her, be a young maiden, pure in spirit and chaste but also aware that she might be tempted by the devil.'

He nodded to me and played the opening bars and I began to sing.

I was such a lovely girl

while I flourished as a virgin.

The whole world praised me,

everybody liked me.

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

When I set out for the meadows

to pick flowers,

a crude fellow decided

to deflower me there.

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

He took me by the white hand

but not indiscreetly;

he led me along the meadow

very deceitfully.

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

He took me by the white dress

most indiscreetly;

he led me along by the hand,

very fiercely.

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

He said, ‘Maiden fair, let's go over there:

that grove is lonely.'

Woe betide that grove we took!

I had cause to lament it.

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

‘There stands a fine linden tree

not far from the path.

I've left my harp there,

my drum and lyre.'

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

When he came to the linden tree,

he said, ‘Let us sit down.'

Love really constrained him –

‘Let's play a game!'

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

He took me by the white body,

not without my trembling.

He said, ‘I'll make you a woman –

your face is so pretty!'

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

He pulled up my little shift,

leaving my body bare.

He broke into my little fortress

with his erect spear!

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

He took the quiver and the bow.

Well he did his hunting!

That's how he betrayed me.

‘End of game!'

Hoy and oe!

Cursed be the linden trees

planted by the way.

When it was completed and Reinhardt the Ratcatcher played the last sad note there was much cheering and clapping. Then the widow Johanna came to stand before me, the ratcatcher's hat held in both hands. ‘Sylvia, I am truly sorry,' she said quietly, her voice penitent and her eyes lowered. ‘I abused your sacred chastity and I beg forgiveness.'

I saw then that the ratcatcher's hat was filled to overflowing with alms, more money than I had ever seen and such as might have been given to a visiting bishop or a cardinal or even perhaps the Pope himself!

‘Frau Johanna, nothing is impure to the pure in heart,' I declared. It was a phrase I had learned from one of the abbot's strident sermons and had myself at the time taken courage from it. Although, since I was a sinner far more than she, I did not feel comfortable saying it so prudishly. I was later to learn that sometimes we say things that people hope to hear and that this is sufficient unto the moment. Priests do it all the time, laying their hands upon supplicant heads and giving out blessings, while wondering what's for dinner.

Then to close our sojourn at the village I sang the Gloria's
Laudamus Te
and the people knelt and praised God in their hearts. We thanked the good folk for their alms and with our back sacks filled with the finest provisions – wine, goat's cheese, loaves and pickles – we made our departure. The village folk, following us to the edge of the village, shouted to our future luck and good fortune as they wished our wending blessed. I had now learned that opportunity, when seemingly lost, is often at its ripest moment.

CHAPTER THREE

The Entertainers

WITH SOME RELIEF FOR having, in the end, fared handsomely at the hands of the villagers we once more set our path for Cologne. Now as we drew closer, but two days out, we came upon a group of pilgrims who told us they were bound for Cologne on a pilgrimage.

‘Is Cologne a holy destination then?' I asked.

‘It is the ancient churches there, St Mary's on the Kapitol and St Martin's, both most holy shrines,' the young cleric leading the group answered. Then anxious to tell me more, ‘They are
quasi mater et matrona
, most holy places wherein reside numerous relics and in particular those of the Three Magi.' It was clear to see that he wished to impress upon us the earnest nature of the pilgrimage he led. This was spoilt somewhat when a simple member of his group added in a guileless voice, ‘It is near enough for us to complete our pilgrimage and return home to our village before the winter snows claim the roads.'

The news that in Cologne I could take my confession and holy communion, then begin my penance, filled me with hope. Also, at the same time, I could be seen to embark upon a pilgrimage. Then, of course, I asked myself, if Cologne was already my destination, would this count as a pilgrimage in God's eyes? I thought probably not – there are always special conditions that apply and I was learning there are very few short cuts in life.

Later, when we'd moved away from the group, Reinhardt asked me if I knew the meaning of the Latin phrase the cleric had used to describe the cathedral.

‘Nay, I am a peasant and know no Latin,' I replied.

‘But you sing the Gloria, they are in Latin?'

‘I have memorised the words of the chants but do not know their meaning, except that they be words to the glory of God.'

‘That is enough, I daresay,' he replied.

‘No! It is
not
enough!' I replied in frustration. ‘I hunger for such knowledge, knowing I shall never possess it. It is like a glorious riddle that in knowing its meaning, you will become rich, but while you might recite it a thousand times, you cannot understand its secret.'

‘The words mean “
like a mother and a matron
”,' he replied simply.

‘How know you this?' I asked, surprised.

He laughed. ‘How does a humble ratcatcher know his Latin is what you mean to say, is it not?'

I did not deny this. ‘Perhaps, yes.' Then added excitedly, ‘When I sing the Gloria, do you know the words?'

‘Aye.'

‘And you will teach them to me?'

‘You will sing them no better for the knowing,' he replied pompously.

‘Yes I will!' I persisted. ‘I shall, by knowing them, all the more worthily praise the Lord Jesus.' Then, remembering my question I inquired again, ‘So? How know you Latin?'

‘A fortuitous accident of birth. My father was the ratcatcher on the great estates of the Abbot Theodore of Hamelin and he befriended a priest, Father Eric, who taught the nuns in the Benedictine convent the abbot caused to be built. He would allow me, until I reached puberty, to sit silently in their classes with a slate and stylus. Here I learned to read and write Latin.' He shrugged. ‘Thereafter I knew sufficient to learn more by later conversation with him.'

‘You can read as well?' I asked, astonished.

‘A little. Why? Do you think me a dunderhead?'

‘Will you teach me?'

‘And what good will that do you?'

‘You mean because I am ignorant, a peasant?'

‘Nay, because you are a woman,' he replied.

I did not know at first how to answer this as I knew it to be true. ‘You said yourself there were nuns who learned to read.'

‘Aye, they are women of noble birth.'

‘And you, the son of a ratcatcher and one yourself, are entitled to learn and I, the daughter of a carpenter, am not?'