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Our
Lady of the Herbs Bunting
girdled the twisting high street and swags of foliage festooned every public
house, café and shop front. The maypole had been erected in the community
park and trestle tables set up in side streets. The
parade would begin under the banner bearing the legend, “Our Lady of the Herbs”,
which straddled the mediaeval arch leading to the parish The
Reverend Tina Palmarsh was busy polishing the altar candlesticks while church
helpers garlanded the mediaeval windows with the ivy which annually tried
to choke the trees in the cemetery. The fruiting yew branches would have made
a better show, but the poisonous berries were too tempting for the fingers
of infants able to reach from the pews. As the saviour who bestowed the miraculous
herbs that prevented the mediaeval town from being ravaged by the plague,
green was Our Lady of the Herbs colour. The tomb of the cleric who had witnessed
the miracle being celebrated was decorated with marigolds and lavender, and
the huge alabaster font large enough to baptise a baby hippo, festooned with
rosemary. Nobody
really knew why Our Lady had appeared at the very moment of need, strewing
the aisles of the church with the medicinal herbs responsible for purging
the local population of the blight sweeping the rest of the country. Joining
the enthusiastic crowds gathering to watch the parade was a bespectacled young
man with an unruly quiff which flopped over his eyes at the slightest nod
of the head. Every inch of his elegant six foot declared that he was a scholar.
Not even the casual combat jacket with notebooks in every pocket or self-conscious
tattoo of a spider on a slender neck could dispel any doubt that he had passed
through the best universities collecting honours degrees and a reputation
for studious expertise in his subject. He caught the eye of Rev. Palmarsh
as she bustled past to organise the gaggle of unruly choristers competing
to toss soft drink cans into a waste bin at 20 paces. Scholar and woman of
God nodded in recognition before turning to focus on the matters in hand.
He took out a camera to record the proceedings and she herded the girls and
boys into formation for the parade which would be led by local dignitaries,
followed by floats with several brigades of cadets bringing up the rear. There
would be no jazz band in this procession for the patron saint of Weaving Todbury.
It was a holy occasion, even for non-believers - a day to commemorate a miracle
for Everyman and Everywoman. This
was also a celebration of Flora as well as Our Lady of the Herbs. The floats,
costumes and instruments of the marching bands were decorated with leaves,
vines and flowers, while banners flapping in the sea breeze advertised the
curative properties of modern herbal supplements. Free samples were being
handed out like sweets, with pamphlets of how the overpriced products could
be purchased. Rev. Palmarsh would have banned the blatant promotions, but
somebody had to fund this annual excess. Once
the hullabaloo, street parties and maypole dancing were over, the vicar of
Weaving Todbury poured two glasses of sherry, relieved that she wouldn't have
the bother of it for another year and the ivy could be taken down before it
was shrivelled by the church's antiquated heating system. The
bespectacled scholar took the glass she offered and settled in the vestry’s
armchair. Dr Stephen Joy was expecting her to reveal some profound historical
nugget about the festival. He had not been prepared for the cleric to announce,
‘Actually, “Our Lady” is wrong. It should really be “Saint Sarah”. The Sarah
the people of this town stoned to death.’ The
young man took a sip of sherry to give himself time
to digest the implication. ‘”St Sarah”?’ ‘The Sarah who actually supplied Father
Ronald with the exotic herbs to cure this “plague”.’ ‘You
really doubt that it was the plague as well?’ ‘Could
you imagine bubonic or pneumonic plague being contained by herbal remedies,
however exotic?’ The
sparkle in the eyes of the small sixty-something woman of the cloth suggested
that an element of mischief vied with the solemnity of her calling. ‘You
do know that I'm Jewish, don't you?’ ‘So
was Sarah, and you’re not practising, just a pragmatist. I’ve read your papers
and think this is something which will interest you. Apart from that, my ability
with mediaeval Latin is very limited.’ ‘What
do you expect of me?’ ‘If
you are interested, to investigate the legend created by a population guilty
of murdering a good woman. My ministry wouldn't survive the fallout if I tried
to do it. As the first woman vicar of this parish I've been accused of being
a killjoy and hedonist, and much worse. Destroying belief in the only local
legend that unites the town’s squabbling community would also be the death
knell of what sweet content this annual celebration encourages.’ ‘Then
why reveal the truth?’ ‘Penalty of being a Christian. You're a non-believer so I wouldn't
expect you to find it such a problem.’ Dr
Joy took another sip of sherry. ‘But as a historian, I’m still bound by the
truth.’ He
was familiar with many quaint local myths, and when asked to come and see
the one celebrated in Weaving Todbury had been inclined to take its origins
with the tablespoon of salt his mother stirred into a glass of water for the
Passover table. Judaism had gone through many phases in British history, and
the legend of Our Lady of the Herbs had been generated during one of its darkest.
It was amazing a Jewish herbalist survived at all. She must have been very
good. Dr
Joy knew what was expected of him. ‘You would like me to produce a treatise
to dispel the myth?’ ‘I
would like you, as a pragmatic scholar, to decide whether it should be done.’ ‘What
would you do if it weren’t for that dog collar?’ ‘Publish
without hesitation. But funds being the way they are, we can’t afford to have
bricks put through the stained glass windows.’ ‘Does
the truth really matter after all this time?’ ‘I
honestly don't know. It would only be for the benefit of the living and hardly
matter to the dead.’ ‘Is
there something else you're not telling me?’ Rev.
Palmarsh gave a resigned sigh. ‘It may not seem such a big deal now, but the
local priests of that time could have been excommunicated. I for one would
like to find out if they concealed murder to allow the legend to persist.’ ‘Surely
this is a Catholic matter?’ ‘The
C of E is Catholic, albeit with a small c.’ ‘That
small c enabled you to be ordained.’ Rev.
Palmarsh swallowed her sherry. ‘Don't remind me. Half the congregation converted
to Catholicism when I took up this ministry. Fortunately most of them preferred
incense to sweet tolerance anyway. Bound to be the first
picking up bricks to put through the windows.’ Despite
a niggling thought that the venture could prove a waste of time, the young
scholar was intrigued. ‘So where do you want me to start?’ The
vicar took an ancient box folder from a shelf. Carefully wrapped inside it
were letters by Father Asha, Weaving Todbury's magistrate during the time
of Sarah. Dr
Joy tentatively turned the pages of brittle parchment. ‘Where on earth did
these come from?’ ‘A monastery in Dr
Joy glanced through the pages. As the scholar read, it became obvious that
this would not be a waste of time after all. Most magistrates' records from
that period were dry, legal issues relating to land or property. These brittle,
ink-faded sheets suggested conspiracy and murder. ‘As
far as I can make out, he relates the sequence of events since Sarah's arrival…
and it’s pretty inflammatory stuff. If these letters had been intercepted
it could have meant more than excommunication for those involved.’ ‘Evidently
Sarah's murder played on Father Asha's conscience. His old abbot was the only
one he could safely confess to.’ Rev.
Palmarsh invited Dr Joy to take away the box folder of ancient documents and
study them in his own time. He
found it impossible to refuse. As
he left to catch his train, all the bunting and swags of flowers that lined
the way took on a sinister ambience. Many towns and cities about the world
based their cultures on the unlikeliest of miracles. They would have resented
some interfering scholar trying to disprove that they had happened. Until
then, the historian had not anticipated joining those seekers of truth at
any cost. The people of Weaving Todbury were honest in the celebration of
their unlikely miracle, but harmless delusion was not at play here. Under
his arm was the contemporary proof that could reveal murder. Would it have
been right to saddle the town’s residents with the guilt of something that
happened so long ago? Dr
Joy understood Rev. Palmarsh’s dilemma. There
was only one way to decide. After giving an early evening lecture on mediaeval
iconography, he settled down in his quarters to start translating the fragile
pages. Fortunately, being written by a scholar, they were dated, which enabled
the sequence of events to flow. They were strange, even for those God-fearing,
intolerant times. Sarah
had been the eldest daughter of a wealthy Sephardic spice merchant. After
his ship was wrecked in a Channel storm she had been the only survivor. Found
half-drowned amongst the jetsam washed up on the beach, she was given sanctuary
by Father Ronald who was well aware of the locals’ suspicion of strangers.
The magistrate, Father Asha, took charge of the spices that had been washed
ashore and locked them in the loft of the church hall to dry. During
the following years, Father Ronald engaged Sarah to keep the church in order,
scattering fresh rushes where the livestock came in to be blessed, and grinding
potions with herbs and her spices for him to administer to the sick. He soon
acquired the reputation as a great healer without understanding the antibacterial
properties the herbalist was so familiar with. Then
a mysterious scourge descended on the town and it became necessary to confine
the infectious sick in the church hall to prevent the epidemic from spreading.
Father Ronald could no longer carry on the pretence of being the town's ministering
saviour. Only Sarah had the knowledge to take charge and administer the necessary
potions. The sickness was cured, and the population were grateful for her
expertise. They called her “Ministering Angel of Moses” and “St Sarah”. Father
Ronald and Father Asha were relieved that the extraordinary woman was at last
accepted by the people. The
epidemic passed and Weaving Todbury returned to its normal activity. As a
respected citizen, Sarah was now revered as a midwife, herbalist and wise
woman. Several
years later, a travelling priest preaching an incendiary reading of the New
Testament arrived. In his message was the tenet that the Jews killed their
Christ. Despite Father Ronald's protestations that Sarah was a good woman
who had saved them from an epidemic, the townspeople were incited to stone
her to death. In
their fury, because Father Ronald and Father Asha had tried to reason with
them, the mob turned on the timber church which had given her sanctuary and
burnt it to the ground. All that remained was the large alabaster font donated
by the lord of the local estates, the intense heat cracking the effigies of
the apostles carved into it. By the time his soldiers arrived the rabble had
melted away. There was nothing left but the gutted church and incinerated
remains of Sarah. The
Lord vowed to rebuild the church and punish anyone found responsible for its
desecration and Sarah’s murder, but the people refused to stand witness against
those involved and the radical preacher had long since left to spread his
poisonous doctrine elsewhere. The
predicament confronting Rev. Palmarsh now became Dr Stephen Joy’s. The present
day residents of Weaving Todbury could hardly be held responsible for the
mediaeval atrocity, yet the achievements of a remarkable woman risked being
lost to history if the crime was not exposed. Now facing the same problem,
the history scholar wished he had never accepted the cleric's invitation to
witness the celebration of “Our Lady of the Herbs”. Fortunately
his pragmatism enabled him to believe that fate always had a way of paying
back the misdemeanours of presumptuous humans. It was probably living with
that statuette of Nemesis, finger to her lips to warn mortals against attracting
her attention to their clamouring. She had been standing on the mantelpiece
of his study ever since he had taken over the rooms from the previous master.
Not his choice of deity, she nevertheless seemed to be telling him that the
citizens of Weaving Todbury had already paid for their crime. Dr
Joy was inclined to reveal all and compel the residents of the small town
to face their hollow, reprehensible history, but a reluctant glance at Nemesis
persuaded him to look at the matter from a different perspective. It took
hours of research, but he eventually discovered that two years after Sarah's
murder there had been another shipwreck off the This
time the only survivors were black rats. The
plaque they brought swept through the town. The
few left alive took this to be God’s punishment for murdering the only one
who could have saved them and, to conceal their guilt, allowed Father Ronald
to create the myth of “Our Lady of the Herbs”. Now the origin of the legend
made sense. The only way of secretly honouring Sarah had been to claim that
Our Lady had scattered the herbs along the aisle of the church to cure the
first plague to visit the town. Any mention of Sarah could well have attracted
the visit from another priest preaching a poisonous doctrine. Father Asha
agreed and, as magistrate, authorised the annual festival which had taken
place ever since. As
Dr Joy laid his findings on the vestry table Rev. Palmarsh brought out an
ancient casket and placed it beside the neatly printed pages. ‘So Saint Sarah
is actually being celebrated, but no one here realises it.’ ‘What's
that?’ She
pointed to the faded inscription. ‘Sarah's mortal remains.’
The vicar gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘Father Ronald had them walled up behind
the altar of the new church built by the Lord of the estates. The cavity was
discovered when surveyors were checking the foundations.’ The
scholar needed to touch the woman he had come to admire and laid both hands
on the ancient wood. ‘The plague that swept through Weaving Todbury shortly
after her murder took most of the population. So Nemesis was here after all.’ ‘Well,
it wasn’t Jesus.’ He
raised an eyebrow. ‘She
solved my problem of whether to reveal what happened,’ acknowledged Rev. Palmarsh. ‘I
take it you’re not going to? People here celebrating Our Lady would be mortified
to know what their forebears did.’ ‘Crimes
of the ancestors...’ ‘And
there is a corollary which adds a sting to the whole sorry affair.’ A
sparkle entered the cleric's eyes. ‘Tell me?’ ‘The
name of the ship which brought the Black Death… It was called “Santa Sarah”.’ |