The Killer of Pilgrims

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At last, the Great Pestilence had relinquished its deadly grip. There had not been a new case in three months, and people were allowing themselves to hope that it had gone for good. It had left behind a terrible mark, though. Whole villages lay empty, houses were abandoned and derelict, weeds choked the fields, and every churchyard was full to overflowing with the dead.

The previous December, the Archbishop of Canterbury had written to the Bishop of London, suggesting it was time to thank God for delivering His people from the dreadful scourge. The devout had hastened to comply – it would not do to be ungracious, and provoke a second wave of the dreadful disease. Some folk, feeling prayers were not enough, had opted to go on pilgrimages, too, to make sure the Almighty truly appreciated the full extent of their gratitude.

Unfortunately, undertaking such journeys was no easy matter. The devastating sickness meant roads and bridges had been allowed to fall into disrepair, and nature had taken its toll, too – even the most important routes were now blocked by fallen trees, encroached upon by brambles, or washed away by rain and floods. In places, they had disappeared completely, leaving the traveller to wander hopelessly until some helpful local pointed him in the right direction.

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