Long Tale Press

CRACKOWE CONVICTION

England, 1363

Baron Wittingham shuffled through the raucous market that early morning. Merchants shouted out their wares, some in a song-like fashion, like happy birds chirping out their morning joy. Their chants stopped only when someone interrupted them to make a purchase. The baron would gladly have strutted in the midst of the hubbub, but his long-toed crackowes prevented him. The twenty-four-inch toes of the black and red velvet shoes flapped pleasingly with every step. The tinkle of folly bells attached to the tips was loud enough to notify people nearby that he was in their presence. His mincing gait provided ample time for even the busiest of the merchants to acknowledge him.

"G'mornin' m'lord" someone said as he passed.

Soon the greeting rippled through the crowd. Baron Wittingham was, as always, pleased with the attention. With only rare exceptions, that recognition was the sole reason for his visits to the market.

Matthew the goldsmith's mouth twisted into a pout. As a wealthy merchant, he also commanded the admiration of the commoners. Up to this year, he had offered the baron keen competition for the attention of the townsfolk.

He, too, wore crackowes, a shoe style first designed in Crackow, Poland. And with each inch the baron added to the length of his shoes, Matthew would add a little more. As a goldsmith, he had the means to adorn his shoes with stunning gilt motifs.

When the toes of the shoes became too long to remain rigid, Matthew stuffed them. Hay and moss worked for a while. Later, he found wool to be a more suitable stuffing. The shoemaker's addition of whalebone stiffened Matthew's shoes further.

When the tip grew so long that even these measures couldn't keep the toes from flopping ungracefully, Matthew attached the toes to a garter on his knee with a fine gold chain. Nothing proclaimed his pride and status better.

This year, all that changed.

Some ignoramus in the government had convinced King Edward III that there should be a law restricting the length of the shoes. The prince, of course, could wear any length shoe he desired. With royalty's responsibility came a certain degree of privilege. That was a given. But galling stipulations were added. Noblemen could wear shoes with a toe up to twenty-four-inch long. Gentlemen were restricted to a twelve-inch-toe, and commoners had to settle for a six-inch extension to the length of their shoes.

Baron Wittingham was enjoying this new law. His visits to the market boosted his self-esteem every day. No one else in the town of Chichester could boast shoes as fine. And when he passed by his former rival's goldsmith shop, the burning red of Matthew's cheeks that he and all nearby noticed was satisfying indeed.

After visiting the market in the early morning, Baron Wittingham returned home for breakfast. He attended to matters of the manor and village as well as concerns of the king that came to his attention until dinnertime. That was his only real family time. He rarely missed eating with his wife Mary and their son.

Since the village priest was schooling ten-year-old John privately, conversation often turned to the boy's study of Latin and the Bible.

"Tell me, John, what thoughts is the priest filling your head with these days?"

"Would you like to hear about my lesson today, Father?"

"By all means."

"Today, the priest taught me the story of Lazarus. Do you know the story?"

An embarrassed look briefly passed over his countenance before the Baron said, "I'd like to hear the way you tell it, John."

"It's about a rich man and a poor man named Lazarus. This rich man had fancy clothes and lived in a fine house. I think he must have had very good food, too, though the story didn't say so."

The father laughed expansively.

"At the same time, there lived a very poor man named Lazarus. He lived outside the gate by the rich man's house and wished that he could eat the food that fell from the rich man's table. His body was covered with sores the dogs came and licked. I think he was like the poor, dirty beggars we see by our own gate, Father."

"You may be right, John."

"Finally the day came when Lazarus died. The angels carried him to Abraham's side. Not much later, the rich man also died, but he was buried and went to Hades. There, he was in constant torment. But when he looked up, he could see Abraham far away, with Lazarus at his side. He begged Abraham to pity him and to send Lazarus to him to dip his finger in water to cool his tongue, because he was in agony in the fire. But all Abraham did was to remind him of all the good things he had in life. It was now Lazarus' turn to have good things. No matter how the rich man begged, he could not be comforted."

Baron Wittingham paused briefly before responding. "And what lesson did you learn from this story?"

"I think that the rich man should have been kinder while he lived. Maybe then things would have been better for him after he died."

"And did the priest give you any suggestions about the kind deeds the man should have done?"

"No. But I'm sure he'll tell me if I ask."

"Oh, no," the baron responded. "There's no need to bother the priest with such things."

The next day on the way home from the market, Baron Wittingham seemed to notice the beggars who daily sat outside his gate for the first time. These people are much more fortunate than poor Lazarus, he thought. He knew that the grocer who brought food supplies to the manor often gave the overripe and spoiled food items to the beggars after the manor cooks took what was needed for the estate.

The baron had once reprimanded the grocers for this practice. I won't do that again, he decided. The little story his son told did have a strong point.

Baron Wittingham smiled.

Standing at the window of his office two days later, the baron's uneasiness returned. He found himself reflecting on the fact that no other building in the village save the church had panes of glass at their windows. The peasant houses in the village-the ones that had windows at all, that is-merely had small openings that passed as windows. They were closed at night or during inclement weather with wooden shutters.

The same sick feeling had gripped his stomach last evening when Mary commented on their floors. "I'm so glad we have tiled floors and don't have to suffer with rushes and herbs strewn all over. I had to go into one of the peasant's homes today and it was most distasteful. I can't imagine the insects and vermin they must hold." Her head and shoulders shook noticeably at the thought of it.

He tried to ignore the many tapestries on the manor house walls as he walked by them. Besides the insulation the wall coverings provided during England's cold, damp winters, their only function was to grace the house with their beauty.

Shaking himself free of such thoughts, the baron reasserted the rationale behind his luxuries. He suffered under the cloak of responsibility to keep village life orderly and to be ready to meet the king's requests. His burdens were not trivial.

The next day offered a welcome diversion: new crackowes. The color scheme of these shoes matched his clothing beautifully, exactly as he had planned. His outfit was divided into quarters, alternating between yellow and red. On one leg, he wore a stocking of red. On that foot, he wore the yellow shoe. The other-yellow-leg was completed with a red shoe. And, oh, what shoes! He already owned two pairs of crackowes whose points were attached to garters around his knees with gold chains. But the two-four-inch toes on these shoes circumvented that necessity by curling into several loops. They would actually be easier to walk in!

Baron Wittingham's promenade that day was satisfying indeed. Every face that turned to greet him registered a small surprise. But the crimson face and puffed-up expression of the goldsmith was the most pleasing.

The only thing that dimmed the baron's pleasure was the sight of the beggars at his gate.

Why must this be their place of business? He sighed. He knew the answer. Some of the local merchants and virtually all of those from out of town passed this point on the way to the market. Many gave alms to these beggars.

"Peace be with you," he said more out of duty than enthusiasm as he passed by. "May you be warmed and filled."

That evening at dinner, Baron Wittingham needed a boost to lift his spirits from the doldrums of the day.

"John, my son. Tell me more about your lessons. What new things is the priest teaching you these days?" He assumed they were on to another lesson since the somewhat discomfiting reference of a week ago.

"I've been learning from the book called 'James,' Father."

"James. Um hm," he answered. "Isn't that the book that warns about the follies of the tongue?" The baron was quite sure he was correct. In which case, perhaps his wife rather than he would have thoughts to linger on tonight. Her tongue could use some taming.

"Oh yes! I like that part. But there are other lessons in James as well."

"Yes, yes," Baron Wittingham agreed.

"For example, it talks about favoritism toward the rich. Did you know, for example, that if people pay more attention to a rich man than a poor one it means they've discriminated against the poor and become judges with evil motives?"

Baron Wittingham suddenly and quite involuntarily spat out his wine in a most un-noble manner. When his sputtering had finished, he wiped his lips with his sleeve and sat with his eyes closed.

"Father?" John's small voice asked. "Are you all right?"

Taking a deep breath, the baron opened his eyes. He glanced at his wife, who was stifling a laugh. With a stern look he warned her to compose herself. Then, turning again to John, he answered, "Yes. I'm fine. The wine somehow went down the wrong way. But I'm fine now. What else did you learn from James?" he prompted, hoping to change the subject.

"Well, we must be humble. We shouldn't boast or brag. Those who are rich shouldn't oppress the poor."

Baron Wittingham gave a sharp look at Mary, who turned her eyes downward with a trace of a smile on her lips.

"But I think I like his words about true faith the most."

Baron Wittingham breathed an audible sigh of relief. Smiling at his son, he said, "Yes. Faith is a splendid topic. What have you learned about it?"

"The main point James makes is that true faith is seen in our works. The priest had me memorize part of it. Would you like to hear it?"

Both Mary and the baron encouraged their son to continue.

In Latin, the boy recited, "'Suppose that among you lives a poor brother or sister who lacks daily food and clothes. If one of you should say to them, "Peace be with you; may you be warm and filled with food," but does nothing to meet their physical needs, what possible good is it?'" That kind of faith is dead."

Baron Wittingham's face paled.

"Are you sick, my dear?" Mary asked, alarmed.

"No, uh, yes, I believe I am. Please excuse me," he answered, abruptly pushing away from the table.

Later, in his study, he mulled over his son's words. How, he wondered, could the priest have known the exact words that he would use that day to speak to the beggars? He dismissed the thought. The man couldn't have known. Could he? But even if he didn't know, the priest was obviously trying to use the baron's son to deliver a message to him. The coward. If he had any backbone at all, he would speak to Baron Wittingham personally.

He was well aware that the church considered crackowes lewd and perverse. How they qualified as such, the baron failed to see. At any rate, the church should not be meddling in the fashion preferences of men. If he and others chose to demonstrate that they were a cut above the masses by the shoes they wore, then what of it? The church didn't have the right to dictate this aspect of life. Tomorrow, Baron Wittingham would confront the priest face to face.

Tomorrow came. Tomorrow went. Baron Wittingham's thoughts were no clearer. The priest, as the baron had expected, denied any subterfuge in his lessons to young John. This was after the baron had first weighed the man's intentions indirectly.

"What are you teaching John these days, Father?"

"Doesn't the boy tell you the things he's learning? I encourage all of my students to talk about the things we study with their families."

"Oh, yes, he speaks about his lessons. I only wonder whether you have a special program designed for my son."

"Why, no, m'lord. I thought we agreed John would learn the same things I'm teaching the boys of the village, but in private."

"Yes. Right you are. So we agreed. I only wonder..."

"Yes?"

"The passages my son has been focusing on seem especially... pertinent."

"I do hope so, m'lord. Which things have particularly affected John?"

"Uh, let's see. There was something about... I seem to have forgotten at the moment. Perhaps he spoke with you about them."

"Nooo... I don't think so."

"Well, you're doing a fine job of educating my son. Do continue your exemplary work," Baron Wittingham said, slapping his knees before rising. The wooden soles on his shoes boosted his height a full two inches, allowing him to look down on the priest. "Thank you for your time, Priest."

"You're quite welcome. I hope I've been helpful."

The baron squinted at the man slightly before turning to leave.

Mulling over his son's quoted words from the Bible, the baron decided that he must act beyond his spoken wishes for peace for the indigent outside his gate. Since he had recently been on a successful hunt, he felt he could spare one of the wild boars he had killed.

The poor were welcomed to all they could eat of the roasted boar. The rest of the village nodded their approval of the baron's generosity. The baron felt satisfied and pleased that he'd done something right. And the gesture provided him with one more thing he could gloat about when he passed the goldsmith's shop. Though Matthew the goldsmith was wealthy, nothing he had done compared to the generosity of the baron. Baron Wittingham walked about with his chest thrust forward a trifle more than usual.

Unafraid the following week of asking his son about his lessons, the baron plunged into the topic with gusto. "John, my son. You haven't told us about your lessons recently. Are you having troubles at school?"

"No, Father. But I'm sure you know the material I'm learning. It probably won't be interesting to you."

The baron smiled warmly. "Please. I'm interested because you're my son."

"Well, the priest told me to think about one verse this evening."

"Go on."

"It is called the 'Golden Rule,' Father, and it says we must do to others the things we would like them to do for us. Now that I've thought about it, I've come to the conclusion that life would be more pleasant for everybody if we all lived that way."

"Hmm. You may be right," the baron responded, digging heartily into his roasted venison." At last. A verse that didn't instantly convict him.

Somehow, though, the verse had a way of pushing its way back into his thoughts that night. And the next day and night, and on from there.

Five days later, Baron Wittingham decided what he must do.

Several more days passed before the baron received the package. Opening it up, he saw that his desires had been carried out explicitly. He rewrapped it and set it in a prominent place. He mustn't forget it.

As usual, he visited the marketplace the next morning. As usual, everybody who saw him said their obligatory greeting. But Baron Wittingham hardly seemed to notice.

His eyes were intent as he shuffled his way through the dusty street. Then, upon reaching the central point of the square, he entered the goldsmith shop. Matthew's face registered first surprise, then displeasure, then animosity. But the baron smiled at him, holding out the package he had carried from home.

"What is this, your lordship?" Matthew asked with an odd quiver in his voice. "Surely your lordship has not taken on the role of deliveryman to his faithful servant?" The scorn in his voice was obvious.

The baron looked at him directly, then, after a moment, laughed heartily. "No, no. Not yet. But I do have something for you." He shoved the package into the goldsmith's hands.

"Please. Open it," Baron Wittingham prompted.

When the wrapping was removed, Matthew stared, first at the contents, and then at the baron. His eyes asked the question that refused to leave his mouth. "Are these for me?"

"Yes. They're for you. I had them made to order especially for you. Such things should not be enjoyed by nobility alone. Don't you agree?"

"I, um..."

"And don't worry," the baron added in a low whisper that only Matthew could hear, "they do meet specifications for the length of the toe." Then, pulling back, he added more loudly, "I don't think you'll find a finer pair of crackowes in all of Chichester." A rose window decoration, coupled with intricate cut-outs along the tops of the soft leather made the shoes exquisite.

"I believe you're right," Matthew answered with a broad smile. "Thank you, m'lord!"

"You're quite welcome... my friend."

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