NYGHT OF STĒPEL RAEST

Being the conclusion of Th Pylgrymes Wey by Henry Oldrice,
tragically shortened by an unforeseen event.
NEAR CANTERBURY 1369

Of all the stopping places serving pilgrims who journey from London to Canterbury, Stēpel Raest has no equal in prettiness and comfort.

The spire of St Eke’s, when seen from miles before, lifts the spirit of any traveller, for the village reputation is of good fare and warm bedding. Of course those things—the steeple and fine rest—gave this place its name.

This spire is a progress marker too, reminding the saddlesore that next morning they dismount in Canterbury. That also lifts the spirit, for by now some would gladly exchange an hour’s riding horse for a day’s hard kneeling. But these are people genuine in faith, and many aver, on first sight of that spire, to feel within them the nearness of Saints, who are here Thomas Becket and Augustine of Canterbury. There is certainly much holiness about Stēpel Raest.

Even the horses from that point become more eager in their step, perhaps aware they will soon be lightened of a human burden, just as those they carry will be also lightened of a human burden, which is the heaviness of conscience. For such riddance, done publicly, is the purpose of pilgrimage. By this reasoning, about riddance, we can say that horses too are pilgrims going to Canterbury.

The land of Kent is deceiving, though its people are not—you know the thieves and brigands on the Wey are descended from the North, or crossed from Normandy with the chill wind. I mean that when the steeple is first seen, as was described, there remain hours of travel, and many times the spire seems smaller after larger. That is strange advancement through a land, from one to another vision trick, but in the nature of those parts.

At last, the company reached Stēpel Raest, to great welcome, as if no similar column of confessants had ever been encountered. The church bell rang, village dignitaries came out, and many a hostelry servant, instructed to solicit custom, shouted out the glories of his place. But the pilgrims’ constable of the day, whom you know was the college Praeceptor, chose their inn. It was called the Canterbury Bell, with beds enough for all. So to The Bell they went, led by messenger Hobble, that institution’s winning advocate, first to queue before the ostler, look about the premises, then settle into lodging rooms.

At three hours after noon, the company were gathered up by the Praeceptor and led to St Eke’s. There was held a service conducted by the vicar, giving thanks for their safe arrival. When this was over, the pilgrims wandered separately or in small groups, exploring the churchyard, the village green, and the variety of taverns and alehouses.

I should tell you about this churchyard, which is very beautiful, if we say that of a site of graves. The grass slopes down to a river, called the Anas here, and over that is a stone arch bridge, with fine yews all about. The headstone inscriptions are the saddest in England, even if that might be claimed of others, because to die a pilgrim is the most miserable destiny. There is one naming Simon Acolytēs, of whom you will be told.