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Authors: Karen Maitland
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restlessly around as he continued to peer out into the impenetrable blackness.
Rodrigo, with a glance at Osmond's still furious expression, broke the heavy silence that followed. ‘And where will you go, Zophiel? You have plans?’
‘I had planned to go to Bristol to find passage on a ship. I have business in Ireland.’
‘You're too late,’ Osmond said. ‘If what they told us at the fair is right, you won't find any of the ports open anywhere between Bristol and Gloucester.’ The knowledgethat the great Zophiel's plans had been thwarted seemed to have cheered him up enormously.
Zophiel glared at him. ‘Bristol and Gloucester are not the only ports in England, or did your schoolmaster neglect to teach you that? I assume of course that you did have some kind of rudimentary schooling, though perhaps your poor master gave up on the attempt, and who can blame him?’
Once again Adela had to grab Osmond's arm. She glanced over at us with a timid smile. ‘Where will you all go now that they've closed the fair?’
‘The three of us are travelling north to the shrine of St John Shorne,’ Rodrigo told her before I could answer. ‘I have not been there myself, but Camelot says there are many inns there, many pilgrims. It is a good place to find work and lodgings. A good place to stay until the pestilence has burned itself out. And they will not close a shrine.’
Osmond frowned. ‘I thought I knew most of the saints of England, but I haven't heard of this St John.’
‘That's because he is no saint,’ Zophiel said, his gaze flicking momentarily from the mouth of the cave.
‘It's true he's not actually been canonized,’ I told them. ‘Though don't say that too loudly at his shrine; the local clergy and villagers are apt to take violent offence. But he's only been dead these thirty years and the locals are so sure he will be recognized as a saint, they've given him the title already. And assayed saint or not, there's no question that his miracles draw in the crowds.’
‘Miracles which have not been verified by the Holy Church,’ Zophiel said.
I shrugged. ‘Nevertheless the crowds believe in them and where there are crowds, there's money to be earned.’
‘What kind of miracles?’ Adela asked eagerly.
‘He was the rector of the parish of North Marston, that'swhere his shrine now stands, and there was a great drought there. Crops, animals and people were all suffering. They say Rector John struck the ground with his rod, just like Moses, and a wellspring opened up on that spot, which never failed and never froze. And since, when he was alive, Rector John is also said to have cured colds, fevers, melancholia and the toothache, and even revived those who died from drowning, people now flock to his well to be cured of those same maladies. After all, who hasn't suffered a fever or a toothache at some time?’
‘And where exactly would people have drowned in North Marston, if there was no water?’ Zophiel asked. ‘Or perhaps they were so desperate to be cured of a runny nose that they fell into his miraculous well.’
He had a point. Zophiel was sharp, you had to admit that.
‘I make no claims. I can only tell you what they say. Besides, most pilgrims come out of curiosity to see the boot. That's the miracle that really draws the crowds.’
Zophiel snorted. ‘Ah yes, the famous boot. Proof, if any was needed, that the whole story is nothing but a sham to con money from the gullible.’
‘But if people believe in it, then it will cure them. The art, Zophiel, is to sell a man what he believes in, then you're giving him the gift of hope. And hope itself is always genuine. It's only what it's placed in that can prove to be false.’
‘Hope is for the weak, Camelot.’
‘But what about the boot?’ Adela interrupted, reddening as Zophiel turned to stare contemptuously at her.
‘Apparently while he was exorcizing one poor man from the demon of gout, Rector John captured the devil himself inside the
Rodrigo, with a glance at Osmond's still furious expression, broke the heavy silence that followed. ‘And where will you go, Zophiel? You have plans?’
‘I had planned to go to Bristol to find passage on a ship. I have business in Ireland.’
‘You're too late,’ Osmond said. ‘If what they told us at the fair is right, you won't find any of the ports open anywhere between Bristol and Gloucester.’ The knowledgethat the great Zophiel's plans had been thwarted seemed to have cheered him up enormously.
Zophiel glared at him. ‘Bristol and Gloucester are not the only ports in England, or did your schoolmaster neglect to teach you that? I assume of course that you did have some kind of rudimentary schooling, though perhaps your poor master gave up on the attempt, and who can blame him?’
Once again Adela had to grab Osmond's arm. She glanced over at us with a timid smile. ‘Where will you all go now that they've closed the fair?’
‘The three of us are travelling north to the shrine of St John Shorne,’ Rodrigo told her before I could answer. ‘I have not been there myself, but Camelot says there are many inns there, many pilgrims. It is a good place to find work and lodgings. A good place to stay until the pestilence has burned itself out. And they will not close a shrine.’
Osmond frowned. ‘I thought I knew most of the saints of England, but I haven't heard of this St John.’
‘That's because he is no saint,’ Zophiel said, his gaze flicking momentarily from the mouth of the cave.
‘It's true he's not actually been canonized,’ I told them. ‘Though don't say that too loudly at his shrine; the local clergy and villagers are apt to take violent offence. But he's only been dead these thirty years and the locals are so sure he will be recognized as a saint, they've given him the title already. And assayed saint or not, there's no question that his miracles draw in the crowds.’
‘Miracles which have not been verified by the Holy Church,’ Zophiel said.
I shrugged. ‘Nevertheless the crowds believe in them and where there are crowds, there's money to be earned.’
‘What kind of miracles?’ Adela asked eagerly.
‘He was the rector of the parish of North Marston, that'swhere his shrine now stands, and there was a great drought there. Crops, animals and people were all suffering. They say Rector John struck the ground with his rod, just like Moses, and a wellspring opened up on that spot, which never failed and never froze. And since, when he was alive, Rector John is also said to have cured colds, fevers, melancholia and the toothache, and even revived those who died from drowning, people now flock to his well to be cured of those same maladies. After all, who hasn't suffered a fever or a toothache at some time?’
‘And where exactly would people have drowned in North Marston, if there was no water?’ Zophiel asked. ‘Or perhaps they were so desperate to be cured of a runny nose that they fell into his miraculous well.’
He had a point. Zophiel was sharp, you had to admit that.
‘I make no claims. I can only tell you what they say. Besides, most pilgrims come out of curiosity to see the boot. That's the miracle that really draws the crowds.’
Zophiel snorted. ‘Ah yes, the famous boot. Proof, if any was needed, that the whole story is nothing but a sham to con money from the gullible.’
‘But if people believe in it, then it will cure them. The art, Zophiel, is to sell a man what he believes in, then you're giving him the gift of hope. And hope itself is always genuine. It's only what it's placed in that can prove to be false.’
‘Hope is for the weak, Camelot.’
‘But what about the boot?’ Adela interrupted, reddening as Zophiel turned to stare contemptuously at her.
‘Apparently while he was exorcizing one poor man from the demon of gout, Rector John captured the devil himself inside the
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