Sir Roger de Trumpington gazed pensively across the old hall, watching the dust motes floating in a shaft of morning light. The sunshine illuminated, not only the shabby, worn stone flags, but also Roger’s feet, where they rested on top of Geraint, his favourite hound. Roger enjoyed his position, hanging on the long wall at the foot of the stairs; it allowed him to observe the comings and goings in the lower part of the house, while affording him a good prospect of the magnificently carved wooden staircase which led upwards to where, he presumed, the bedchambers lay. He thought this was probably his preferred existence, although those long years, flat on his back in the parish church of St Mary and St Michael at the edge of the fens, did have an endearing quality all of their own.
It had come as a dreadful shock to him, when he died, to discover that, contrary to all he had believed, there was no God, no heaven, no army of angels attired in silver and gold waiting to welcome him; there was only a mouldering wooden coffin and his mortal body stinking with putrefaction. It had been an extremely unpleasant few years until there was nothing left but his bones. He wasn’t quite certain what would have happened then, whether he would have had to endure centuries in the dark with only his own thoughts for company; but salvation had come with the brass effigy, a shining representation of himself, resplendent in his crusader’s armour. He knew that his son, Giles, would have been very against the expenditure, but then Giles had never been in favour of self-aggrandisement. From what he could see, the brass had been well done, ‘a true likeness’ Alice had cried; but he did wish the crossing of his legs on the knee could have been dispensed with, as it was extremely painful on the calf muscles.
The mistress of the house (he knew it must be she, for there was no sign of any other woman) passed quickly across the hall and ran up the stairs. Roger liked watching her, with her long fair hair and slender figure. He still found the modern tendency, in otherwise respectable women, to wear such immodest clothing, rather shocking, but he had to accept one must change with the times. She was followed, soon after, by the master of the house, a tall, well-built young man who seemed to spend very little time away from his home, a matter which Roger found astonishing. He had spent many unhappy years parted from Alice and the children, following his feudal lord, Sir John de Vescy. It also surprised Roger that there were no children in the household, but perhaps the mistress was barren. That would indeed be a tragedy for both of them. He and Alice had produced nine children together despite his long absences overseas.
Although, at first, the relationship between husband and wife had appeared, to Roger, to be mutually affectionate, with much embracing and tender words, recently there seemed to be a distinct coldness in their exchanges. The young mistress spoke sharply to her husband and he in turn was often to be found slamming doors and shouting. Roger knew, better than any, the difficulties of satisfying the demands of an unhappy wife, but as he was only privy to partial conversations he was quite unable to divine the cause of the conflict. It appeared to concern the imminent departure of the master, a matter which clearly did not please his wife. Wives did not like being left behind and yet perversely, often did not wish to accompany their husbands. The years Roger had spent following the Crusade to the Holy Land had been miserable, not only for him, but also for his Alice, left behind in Trumpington to cope with the children and the servants, managing the manor lands as best she could. When he had left the first time, Giles had been barely three years old and the two little girls even younger.
The problem with any existence, multiple or otherwise, is that it can be cut short in an instant; one moment of inattention and an infidel’s sword could slice your head from your body. Likewise, Roger realised, the time he could enjoy hanging on the wall in this beautiful old hall would not be measured by his desires, but by the intemperate whims of the young couple who belonged here. And so it was one day that, almost without warning, he found himself rolled up from the feet (along with Geraint) and plunged into the darkness of a long cylindrical prison. With a supreme effort of concentration he returned himself to Trumpington.
He had forgotten the limitations of horizontal existence, when all he could see was the underside of the massive stone canopy which soared above him, a broad shallow ogee with its five points and many carved leaves in the spandrels. Since his last visit someone had seen fit to cover his effigy with a sheet of glass, effective at keeping children’s sticky fingers off his chainmail, but not really conducive to a civilised existence.
There had been a time when he had imagined that this was all there would ever be, lying quietly hearing the murmur of the services, the occasional whispered conversation or smothered laugh, always a listener, never a spectator. Over the centuries the women of the parish had cared for him, religiously dusting and cleaning him; one year a kind soul had lovingly laid cowslips and primroses on his hands, where they lay on his breast clasped in prayer – unfortunately the flowers made him want to sneeze. But his years in the house with the carved staircase had awoken his senses to a better way of life. Of course he did have other existences, but he had to admit they were extremely tedious; there was the long stone corridor where no-one ever came; and the library where an old man sat daily to compose his manuscript, but he never spoke and he never looked at Roger; there was a store room where he shared the wall with another couple of crusaders, but, as none of them could speak, all they could do was stare at each other.
If it hadn’t been for the long-haired young man in the scarlet coat, Roger might never have known such diversity in his lives. The scholar had arrived in the church one bright cold morning with his roll of parchment as if in readiness to take an inventory. There had been a moment of sheer panic when the black sheet was swept right over Roger, covering him from head to toe. Then the young man (he presumed it was he although he could see nothing) began his rubbing. He started at Roger’s helm, across his face and down over the hauberk and surcoat, the shield with its trumpets and crosses, to the belt holding his crusader’s sword. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but he felt uncomfortable as the rubbing approached his groin; this was not a sensation he had ever expected to feel again, reminding him of Alice, when young, before childbearing caused resignation to replace enthusiasm; or more shamefully still it recalled the hot nights he had spent with the whores of Bayonne. The man soon passed to concentrate on Roger’s painfully crossed legs, and finally to faithful Geraint who had, in a moment of playful canine enthusiasm, seized the scabbard’s tip in his jaws, just as he used to do in those far-off days, following his lord to glory and conquest.
The realisation that he could now be in two places was exciting. Further visits by other scholars resulted in yet more existences, and soon Roger began to feel that perhaps he had misjudged God. After all, had not Christ said, ‘He that believeth in me shall have everlasting life’. Perhaps this is what He meant: not a single eternal life in a heaven of someone else’s devising, but a choice of different lives, all for the taking. It was a sobering thought.
The explosion of light was totally unexpected. This hall was vast, the largest he had ever seen, and the windows opposite him were impossibly huge. At first he thought they must be paintings or frescoes, but movement beyond the glass made him realise his mistake. The young mistress was standing in the middle of the room, her head on one side, looking at him. ‘There, I think that will do you nicely, old friend. You and I can enjoy the views of the City of London, and he can go to hell for all I care.’ He would never have believed this was London. Where were the city walls, the shops, the royal palaces and churches of his past? Instead he could see huge grey buildings and strangely shaped towers. The banks of the river were transformed. Oh how time had changed his world!
The months passed and the young master never came. Many other people visited, laughing and chattering through the vast open space where his beautiful young mistress now lived. One or two men she took to bed with her on her sleeping platform; Roger heard, in embarrassment the sounds of energetic lovemaking, but it did not seem to make her happy. Then one day, when Roger was dozing in the gentle sunshine, he realised he could hear a familiar voice – the young master had returned! Now there was much conversation, as one would expect upon a husband’s return. ‘Come back with me, sweetheart. Please.’ he said. They talked, and argued, and cried and kissed and just as Roger despaired of them ever coming to their senses, the master lifted her into his arms and carried her, unresisting, up the steps to the big, soft bed.
Now all was busy and bustling. People came and went, looking around, commenting on the views, discussing the furniture, peering into cupboards and examining the wall hangings. One woman, clothed in a bright yellow gown and purple leg coverings, stopped in front of Roger. ‘Strange old geezer, what do you want him on your wall for; give me the creeps he would.’
The young mistress smiled, ‘He’s an old friend; I wouldn’t part with him for the world.’
But it seemed as if all women were duplicitous, for less than a week later she rolled him up again (feet first), and this time he stayed in the dark cylindrical prison.
Feast days came and feast days went, the rhythm of the Church flowing timeless and unchanging. Years passed, and Roger felt resigned once more to the loneliness of his existence under the arch. He counted the leaves for the thousandth time. Occasionally he visited his other existences, but if the truth were known, they bored him. He preferred to stay here where he could daydream in peace. One day, when Christmas was long past and he could smell the Lenten lilies, when he had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, he heard a familiar voice, ‘Look Giles, here he is, I told you we’d find him here.’
She came and stood beside him, sliding her finger beneath the glass to touch his cheek. ‘Hello, old friend, look who I’ve brought to see you.’ Standing beside her was a boy about eight years old, with golden hair and a look of . . . yes, a look of his Giles, the same nose, the same cheekbones, the same dark eyes.
‘This is your ancestor darling. When Dad and I are all unpacked and have got the house half-way straight, I’ll find the old brass rubbing and we can hang him back where he belongs, at the foot of the stairs.’
The boy stared at Roger. ‘I guess he looks kinda cute, Mom! I think I’ll like him as a many times great grandfather.’
An inaudible sigh passed Roger’s lips. Life everlasting!
Note: There appears to be some doubt as to which Sir Roger de Trumpington is represented by the brass which lies in the Church of St Mary and St Michael in Trumpington, Cambridge. It is possible that it is Sir Roger I who died in 1287 and who accompanied Prince Edward (later King Edward I) on the 8th Crusade; but some scholars believe it to be his grandson Sir Roger II who died in 1326. The brass may in fact be a representation of Sir Giles, the son of Sir Roger I and father of Sir Roger II, who survived his son and may have appropriated his own brass to use for him.
