1644
DAY ONE: SUNDAY
‘The First Day’
The year is 1644 and the time is - somewhere in the late morning, or thereabouts? Complete accuracy of chronology is subjective at best these days.
I see you spotted the small hairy man? No more than four feet in height, pulling the curtains aside on my luxurious four-poster bed? Well, he’s not me, I can tell you. As you can probably guess, from my chin flapping up and down, that I’m the one behind the curtains, in the bed. See?
You greet me on this most holy of days, two years into the conflict between Parliament and the Crown. My name is, for my sins, Wilfred Posster. And trust me, my sins are great. Something that I am continually proud of, I must say. Oh, in case you’’re wondering, and why should you, this diminutive creature here is, though by many titles, my manservant, Flit. Trust me, he’’s relatively unimportant.
And yes, as you can see, there is a woman in my bed. What of it? In fact there’s a much longer story there, but more on that later. This place? This is my Private Room within the Rectory in the little town of Upper Vaxham, deep in the heart of the County of Moistershire, down there somewhere, on your map. And in case you’re wondering, Lower Vaxham doesn’t exist. No, not through war, or anything nearly as sinister as that. It simply sank into the swamp it was built upon, built by the fair hands of the eccentric builder, Forestry Sump; a man as peculiar as his name suggests - built around 1280, or so I believe. And it seems no one in the interim was bothered enough to change the name of Upper Vaxham to, simply, Vaxham. I don’t know though - I think it sounds quaint? Hmm. Suit yourself, then.
So far this little conflict has largely missed us here. And I for one am thankful, though the presence of so many people does demand a certain amount of attention. Mainly to the purse, it has to be said. But that as it may be, it doesn’t prevent the fact that in twenty days, I will face the gallows, and all for something silly. Still, that’s almost three weeks away, and so much can happen in that time. This? This monologue? This, with full disclosure, happens to be the story of those particular twenty days, which all started when the two armies landed on our doorstep during the Summer Solstice, or the Longest Day of the Year, as some prefer to name it.
“Any Witherings?” I’m asking Flit out of a sense of conversation, you understand. The least interaction one can have with him is often the best course.
"They call it the Post now, sir." You know, Flit is annoying me already?
"I know what they call it, Flit. Your insolence today is - oh forget it. Is there?" He is vexing my patience already and I’ve only been conscious for three minutes.
"No, sir."
"Hmm. I blame those Catholics, you know.”
Sorry if I seem a bit rushed. I have to get dressed in a hurry today. What was that? Am I having a wash? Pah. Washing is for losers and floozies, “Anyway, what with the price of stamps these days -" You know, I think I’ll leave that sentence hanging there, before I do the same to Flit.
Anyhow, time waits for no man - “My hat, Flit?”
You know, it’s just occurred to me? I haven't told you what I do! Well, I'm a Rector; Rector Wilfred Posster of the Vaxham Church. No, really! Why do you think I'm wearing this bloody ridiculous frock then? I know you're thinking it doesn't sound likely, but its true. See, when I joined the Church - look, I got into it for the money! You know, the tithe? How was I to know I'd have to do all this religious stuff too? Like I’ve always said, if it looks too good to be true, it probably is. Hence why I have Flit, to Curate - to do all the work I don’t want to do.
If you look up there, you might be able to just about see the smoke from the camp fires, up on Vaxham Hill, where the Royalists and the Parliamentarians wait for God knows what, before they start fighting. I’m guessing they’re all waiting for the end of lunch or something. I know I would. Given the time of day, you wouldn't think there would be this much activity - excuse me, may I get past? - this much activity in the streets. Must be the conflict. Brings all sorts out, does war - if you can call this a war. I heard there’s not much more that fifteen thousand on either side?Sounds more like an argument that got out of hand, if you ask me. But you didn’t. So there we are.
Oh right. The Pilgrims are here. I forgot it was that time of year again. Here, let me open the Church up.
See, these bods come here, to Vaxham Church every year on the dot, to see the bones of dear Saint Edwin the Reluctant, Patron Saint of - something or other. It doesn’t matter. It raises the coffers, and that’s all I care about. How else am I expected to minister to the needy? Prostitutes don’t pay for themselves, you know. Drinks aren’t free at the Frozen Arm - my local - either. I wish they were. I daren’t see the ledger for how much I owe them. It would scare a sleeping badger from it’s set, I’ve no doubt.
“Excuthe me, thir?” You heard that didn’t you? “I thay, Wector?” That! You heard that! Oh -
“How may I help, my son?” He definitely is there, isn’t he? I’m not talking to empty space, am I?
“Ith thith where you keep the boneth? Of Thaint Edwin the Weluctant?” He’s an odd fellow, isn’t he? Oh, I know, I see a lot of the truly odd in my line of work, but this one is on purpose, I think!
“No, we keep them over there, in the philatory. Look, follow me. See this glass viewing portal? If you look in -“ They’re not there!
“Thorry?”
They’re not there! What the -
“Ah, if you would return to the main party of Pilgrims -“ I’ve got to say something. I know! I’ll do the old Church Tour. Should keep them quiet for a while. So help me, when I get my hands on Flit I’ll -
“Ahh, but may I have a little peak, thir? The tinietht of lookth?”
“No. Go back to the group.”
“Not even the -“
He really is trying my patience, this one, “When it’s ready to look at, I promise you will be the first in the queue!” miserable little git.
Just look at that lot! The great unwashed. Every one of them a privileged man or woman. Who else can afford to ride across the land, stopping at Churches, looking at their relics? Of course, the relics of Vaxham Church are a replica. I should have said that earlier. I sold the originals some time ago, to pay for a gambling debt. Won’t do that again. Can’t. Don’t have them any more. Plus, my credit line is long gone with the Roundabouts, those long established lenders of money, who at one time in history threatened to break the knees of wealthy Monks for non payment of debts in the Middle Ages. They make their money - legally, mind you - nowadays through the Puritan fines for the non attending of Anglican Services. What they do with it once they have it is - less than legal. Hey, who am I to complain? Tithes only go so far, you know. It’s said they even had a hand in the introduction of the Book of Common Prayer to our Northern neighbours those seven years gone, leading to the riots. The Roundabouts were only concerned about the riots, it seems, because they have the printing rights, and they’re now out of pocket. This extends down the line, to poor, honest - don’t laugh - people like me, at the end of that long spiky line. That’s why I tolerate Pilgrims like this lot, and welcome their purses all the more. I’ve got shavings from the True Cross out back you know, or at least I will have, when Flit gets here for his arse kicking, with a block of wood and a chisel. What has he done with those bones? Bloody Catholic plot, I’ve no doubt -
So let’s just give them the usual spiel? You know - this stained glass window was donated by this guy, the apse there once was used to baptise some Royal some time in the past, that is the curtain Prince someone or other wiped their nose on, and you can still see the remains of the goo here, even though it’s actually replaced monthly from Flit’s own personal nostrils - most of it I make up, you know, so there’s no point going through it all. I usually improvise every tour. No one notices. They’re too busy looking to be listening. As long as their coin is in my hand at the end of the day, everyone is happy. Well, I’m happy, and that’s all that counts.
Right. I have to find Flit, that little git. What has he done with old Edwin’s bones? Ah! First, I need to get rid of this lot, “Uh, people? The Church is now closed for lunch! If you would kindly make your way in an orderly direction to -“
“But you’ve only jutht opened? All we got wath a quick tour of the Church? We haven’t even theen the boneth yet -“ Look! All the others were fine until you jumped up, you jumped up - never mind, “Look, it’ll only be fifteen minutes or so? Okay? Great! This way -“
“But we get to thee the boneth after?”
“Something like that, yes.” Just look at these lot. God knows what I’ll do with them if I can’t find Flit. The Pilgrimage crowd is where most of my finances come from you know? It’s true to say Upper Vaxham is one of those Towns that have their own Cottage Industry. We make things others use, it has to be said. I, or rather Flit, makes the things these religious, spiritual wannabes wet their breeches over. It keeps me in the luxury I have grown accustomed to. And I’ll be buggered if I let them slip away without a splinter off the Crown of Thorns. Those are my best sellers, I’ll have you know. That and the water poured from the Holy Grail. Very nearly clear profit on those. Only the cost of the bottles. Anyway, here we are. The Frozen Arm, so named after - actually, you know, I’ve got no idea why its called that? I should really ask the Landlord some day. Right now I better see Flit sitting at the bar with a bag of bones when I open this door, or -
Bugger.
“I aint servin’ you no more! Get!” Ranker, the Landlord. Always jesting, this one.
“I was actually looking for Flit.” truth never hurts once in a while.
“He ain’t been in. He’s barred an’ all.”
“How about a water? I’ll sit in the corner? Be no bother?”
“Well, if yer willin’ to drink water, I suppose -“ Poor bloke hasn’t the wit, I’m afraid. He’s no match for my - wait, is that water? It looks so - brown? I better go sit before he tries to cut me to size with his rapier wit once more. He’s alright, actually. He’s an asset in a bar brawl, as I have learned much to my constant pleasure. You’d think a Rector was above such things as bar fights, and you’d be right. That’s where Ranker comes in, with his dangerously shiny blackjack. It’s a thing to see, that blackjack in full swing. Thank God I’ve never been on the receiving end.
Wow. Look whose here? No! Don’t look round, but look! It’s only Frank Laud! What do you mean you don’t know who that is? Major General Francis Laud? Brother of the Archbishop? You know? Leader of the Roundabouts? They say that a couple of years ago, when the idiots called Bastwick, Burton and Prynne accused Archbishop William Laud of reintroducing Catholicism to England, and he had them arrested - sin of sins for gentlemen like them, had their ears cut off for writing those pamphlets? It was Frankie here that did the actual cutting. And it is said he enjoyed doing it too. Well, it is his stock in trade, I suppose. The removal of limbs for non payment of debt. I should keep my head down to be honest. I owe them a fair amount, and if he recognises me, then I’m in -
“Is that Wilfred Posster I see skulking in that corner?” It’s almost as though he can read my bloody thoughts. I tell you what, I’ll sit here quietly and pretend he - bugger, he’s right there, isn’t he? That’s him standing right behind me, isn’t it?
“There is a rumour, and I don’t mind telling you, it sounds equally absurd to me, that my woman, Miss Sharryn Knibbs, was seen hovering around the Rectory on no fewer than three occasions. As we both know, you are about as full of religious fervour as a wood pigeon, so I sincerely hope it remains as just a rumour, for your sake.” Oh, please, take a seat! Not like I’m not uncomfortable enough yet. Look at those eyes? I wager that Shakespeare bod could’ve written a few pieces about the stories those eyes have seen. Frankly, if he only wrote ‘ouch’ a couple of hundred times, he would be somewhere close to the truth of it.
Now he’s got his hand on my wrist.
This usually means a loss of fingers. Still I suppose I don’t need all of them, “Listen to me, Posster - there is a day of reckoning coming, when you and I shall meet again, and on that occasion, I hope you have more to offer than whimpers and puddles of piss. Come on boys! Time to get back to the war!”
There he goes, the only man who actually enjoys war, as it’s a legal excuse for him to perpetrate his violence. I really wouldn't be surprised if he had a hand in starting this contretemps of a conflict in the first place? He certainly has money invested in it, I can be sure of that. You know, I think I’ll give this water a miss. I can see something swimming in it. I better get back to the Church, before those Pilgrims get bored and wander off. Thank you Ranker for - alright! Theres no need for gestures like that! I am a man of the cloth, you know! See? That’s the kind of respect I garner amongst this lot. Just look at them! Every one professes purity, and every one of them to a man, woman and child is dirtier than that hole in the ground that passes for a public convenience around here. It’s like -
“It’s not straight.” Who said that? Ah -
“And you would be referring to?” I shudder to think.
“That sign. It’s not straight.”
“I know. It’s never been straight.”
“I know.” Keeping up? Because I don't think I am. He’s referring to the pub sign, of course. It’s got a screw loose - and I’m not committing to who or what I am referring to there. This is Sticks Letty, so called because - watch, I’ll drop these stones - see? Sorts them! He’s good at that. Better with sticks, obviously, but, funnily enough, I don't carry sticks around in my pockets? I don't usually carry stones, come to that, but - ah, a story for another day, I think, “Neither is your sign.”
“You think not?”
“Neither is that wall, or that road, that crow isn’t flying right and -“
“Okay, okay. I get it. Everything’s crooked.”
“Not everything. Almost everything, but not everything.” What in Charles Stuart’s name is he referring to?
“What are you referring to?” You know, I thought I’d ask?
“The rope. The rope is straight, when it is in use.” I hope he’s not referring in some way to his tallywacker. Please, let it not be a euphemism for his nether regions! God, now it’s all I can think about -
“Well, it was good speaking with you, Sticks.” It wasn’t, but there’s no point hurting the strange kid’s feelings, is there?
“The Shortest Night brought them, you know. The Summer Solstice brought them here, to our land.” He must be referring to the armies.
“Yes, they did. Now don't go wandering over to Vaxham Hill on your own, okay?” He probably will, and some idiot with a rifle will shoot him for spying or something, but, you know? Maybe it would be a mercy to -
“No! They came! They came with the Solstice! Now they are here, amongst us!”
Ow! He’s really gripping onto my arm there! “Woah there! Let’s not go starting some nutty thing we can’t take back, and some Clubmen come along and bash you over the head for it!” This is most definitely not like him. Well, it’s mostly like him. Come to think of it, it’s exactly him, but with different words and intonation. Still, if I - let go! - if I just - there! Right. He’s scampering off now. Better get back to the Church. Hope they’re still there, and not in a hole somewhere -
Oh, good! They’re still there! Like sheep, you know. Leave them alone too long and they start walking off in packs, getting themselves into dangerous situations. You have to have eyes up your backside with Pilgrims. Too trusting, most of them. Well, it seems except for this loudmouth. I’ll just unlock the door and -
“Flit! Where the Hell have you been, you snivelling little toad of a -“
“There’s a long story about this one, guv. See, I -“
“I don’t want one of your bloody long-winded explanations of how you saw this, and fell over that, breaking whatever and selling sodding magic beans for a bovine pest! The short version, if you please?” There! Take that smack round the head for good measure! Damn. Got my hand dirty now -
“They got nicked.”
“Well - a bit longer than that, you idiot!”
“I dunno how they got in and did it, but someone did and I was forced to look for a replacement. I thought of diggin’ someone up, but that’d take too long, and -“
“For God’s sake man! Don’t you have a version of this story somewhere in the middle length?”
“Right. Here they are.” They aren’t the same ones!
“They aren’t the same ones, you dolt!”
“I know. I had to go to the next town over, where they got them bones of Saint William the Crowded? That’s him.”
“Flit?”
“Sir?”
“Why, and of course take your time coming up with the ridiculously stupid answer for this question I am about to pose to you - ready for it? I can see you are - why are they, and I can’t believe I’m asking this out loud, why are they glowing?” They are, in fact, glowing. Look. It’s not my imagination is it? I know I could do with more sleep, and I’m sure Flit is putting something in the wine -
“Ah, now - I dunno.”
“Well, thanks for that fascinating insight.” I really don’t need to say that, but I have to get across to this hairy little idiot how nothing like our bones these are.
“I was told it has somethin’ to do with the Solstice thing, but, you know -“
“Frankly, no, Flit, I don’t. Bugger it, put them in the philatory. I’ll have to come up with some excuse why they’re glowing. Honestly, Flit, I don’t know why I keep you around.” Actually I do, but I’ll never tell him. I’m useless without Flit. He simply does everything. I don’t think I could break in another Flit this late in life, “Alright, get out the back. You have souvenirs to make.” He’s alright, really. It’s just unfortunate that he smells like a sewer in a particularly strong rain. And as damp as one too. I think he must be part slug, the amount of liquid he creates.
Time to let the Pilgrims see the artefacts, I suppose.
That’s right. Take a good look. See how they glow, and make your sounds of wonderment. Let your jaws drop with awe! That’s it! There they go! Just one more, and -
“Wector? May I have a word?” - Almost.
“Yes, my son? What can I help you with?” Smile. Smile. Just so long as they don’t see what’s behind that smile - the venom I could spit at this git -
“Thothe aren’t the boneth of Thaint Edwin the Weluctant. For a thtart, thethe are glowing.”
He would spot that one thing, wouldn’t he? “Ah, yes, well, you see,” come on brain! Think of something! “I, I think you’ll find that, quite frankly, the reason they’re glowing is, in fact -“
“You don’t know do you?” Straight to the sodding point, isn’t he? There’s only one thing left to do, I suppose.
“How much?”
“Thowwy?”
“How much to keep it shut?”
“I don’t underthtand?” Oh, he understands alright.
“Look, my Curate, Flit, he took the bones of what’s-his-face -“
“- Thaint Edwin the Weluctant -“
“Ecthactly - I mean, exactly. He took the bones to be cleaned for this most special of days, and simply - mislaid them. It’s alright, though! He knows where he was, last time he saw them! These are in fact the bones of -“
“- Thethe aren't the boneth of a Thaint, I know that much.”
“Wow, you really know your Saints.” He really knows his Saints.
“I have to weport thith to the authowitieth. Pathing boneth off ath Thaintth is againtht the -“ Oh, thank God! Here’s Flit!
“Flit! There you are! Could you take this man here over to the room behind the curtains over there, and explain to him exactly why the bones are glowing? There’s a good chap! Right! Now, the rest of you! If you will follow me to the table over there, where there will be refreshments, at a small cost, and some souvenirs you may wish to purchase at a small cost also! The noise? Oh, don’t worry about that! The sound of battle does travel from Vaxham Hill on these quiet afternoons! I know, it sounds remarkably clear - and close!” That ought to hold them for a minute or two, “Oh, Flit?! When you have a spare minute or two, can you serve these lovely ladies and gentlemen over at the souvenir stand? I’m stepping outside for a minute or two, okay?”
Smell that! Smells like profit to me! And all I had to do was have someone beaten for a while. Could’ve been worse, I suppose? I am wondering why those bones are actually glowing, though? Is it a portent, of something to come? I did come into this story telling you of the twenty days until I face the gallows. Is this something to do with that? I suppose I’m going to have to discover this information much as you are; as it happens, in real time.
I suppose, in a way, today has been quite simple, in the grand scheme of things? I can’t see how that will change over the next nineteen days, but it will certainly be interesting to find out, won’t it? Ah, there she is now, my lady! You know, the one in my bed this morning? Remember? Her story is yet to come, but I can tell you some of it will be told tonight. Especially when I’m finally rid of these damned Pilgrims! Wait, that’s not fair. Being rid of these kindly, paying Pilgrims, I should say, and - God, what now?
“Excuse me, Rector, but where is the hole? You know, the tinkle room?” Thank God! I thought she was going to ask for her money back then! It’s been a bad enough day without those kind of shenanigans!
“Over there, my dear! Behind that curtain.” Yes, most of them are old and deaf. I’ve got to shout at her for clarity. I should say that pointing out where the water hole is surely is beneath me, but no, it really is over there, behind that curtain, where that -
Shit!
“You! Stop! Wait a minute! Don’t -“ Bugger! Too late…
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