by Ann Swinfen
‘It does.’
He nodded his thanks, and I felt a brief pang of jealousy as I bowed him out and closed the door. I hoped he would not hire Rufus, for I had begun to think of him as my own horse.
‘Well,’ I said, turning back, ‘that was a profitable sale.’
I opened the drawer and counted out some of the coins. ‘That was more than I expected for the book of tales. You shall have half the extra, Roger, for making the book, and you the other half, Walter, for showing it to Master Winchingham.’
They both grinned at the unexpected bounty.
‘And now,’ I said, ‘since I had a different customer in mind for that book, Roger, you had best set to and make another. Walter, you and I need to take an inventory of our student texts, to be sure we are short of nothing, now that the new term is upon us.’
The business of making preserves of every sort imaginable continued for several days. After I had picked the apples, I had hoped to be free of further demands on my time, for this was a busy period in the shop, as the older students, aware of the week’s ban on trading during the fair, hurried to buy such stationery as they would need for the Michaelmas term. Although the most costly goods I sell are the books, it is the regular trade in the smaller items which is the major source of the shop’s income, together with the hire of peciae, the sections from the set study texts which the students could borrow and copy for their own use.
However, the merchant venture afoot in our kitchen required not merely the goods to sell, but the containers in which to sell them. I was assigned the task of finding a potter who could produce a supply of cheap jars in three different sizes, to serve as containers for the softer preserves.
‘The fruit cheeses,’ Margaret said, ‘will be firm enough that we need only wrap them in oiled paper. But we need sufficient jars in these three sizes.’
She had chosen three of her own pots to provide guidance, and instructed me to visit several potters, to find the best price.
‘Aye, very well,’ I said, prepared to order the pots and fetch them when they were ready, but not intending to spend hours exploring all the potters in Oxford. I knew a reliable man in Grandpont, so I took the commission to him.
‘I am glad of the business, Master Elyot,’ he said, ‘for like you I shall lose trade during the fair.’
‘You do not intend to take a stall yourself this year?’ I knew he had done so in the past.
‘Nay.’ He shook his head and eyed me sideways. ‘Have you not heard the whispers? There will be trouble this year. My goods are too easily smashed. I’ll stay at home and keep all in safety.’
‘Then I hope my sister and her friends may not suffer,’ I said.
When I reported this news to Margaret that evening, she gave me a scornful look.
‘We are not afraid of a few wild lads from the town, looking for trouble. They will not bother us. We will remind them all too clearly of their own wives and mothers. They will be seeking out bigger prey, and above all, the lay servants of the priory.’
‘Perhaps. But promise me, if trouble comes your way, you will close up your booth and come home.’
‘Certainly,’ she said, but I saw from the look in her eye that she felt that she and her friends were a match for any loutish group of young men. I hoped she might be right.
When at last I had collected the pots for the preserves and was freed from further assistance at this new merchant venture, I went during the afternoon, three days before the fair, to seek out a skilled carpenter I knew who had premises down a small alleyway off Fish Street, a few doors beyond the Guildhall. The alley itself was narrow and unprepossessing, but opened, after a few yards, into a wide court, lined all about with several buildings – a storehouse for seasoned timber and one for green, a workshop with lathes and saws and other large tools of the carpenter’s trade, and a hellishly hot shed where timbers could be steamed and bent round forms when curved pieces were needed. John Shippan’s father had been a boat-builder, working on the Thames over near the castle, and he had first learned his trade from his father in the boat sheds there.
As well as these buildings surrounding the court, the Shippans had a home built over the storehouse, and a very rickety outside stair led up the side of the main workshop to another room above, where John did his finer work and kept his accounts. They say a cobbler’s children are always the worst shod. The same might be said of that staircase, for whenever I climbed it, I held my breath for fear it might collapse beneath me. You would think a master carpenter would be shamed by such a travesty of a stair, built of rotting and ill-matched wood. I had never seen the inside of their home, but the state of those steps caused me to wonder whether Mistress Shippan had to endure furniture made up from the broken bits of boxes and warped timbers.
‘Maister be in his office, sir,’ one of the ’prentice lads told me. This was a successful business and Shippan employed two journeymen and four apprentices.
I took my life in my hands and climbed the stair.
‘Master Elyot, God give ’ee good day. I’ll be with you the minute this is dry.’
Shippan was gripping two small pieces of wood together in his hands, which were long and fine, but muscular.
‘Too small for a clamp, see?’
Somehow Shippan always put me in mind of those elves and other strange beings who populate the old tales. Although he was quite tall, he was twig thin, with a pointed face which might be any age from fifteen to sixty. His high, domed forehead was topped with a thatch of ginger curls, forever tangled with wood shavings and sawdust, and the ears which poked through them were certainly pointed.
I swept more shavings off a stool and sat down to wait. The carpenter had a small enclosed brazier here, on which a saucepan was heating, holding some sort of glue, for there was a powerful odour of boiling cow’s feet mingling with the more pleasant aromas of beeswax and olive oil, which he used for polishing his finished pieces. I wondered whether any of Mistress Shippan’s kitchen pots were safe from her husband. He was an artist in wood, and like most artists, he was obsessed.
‘There.’ He laid his bits of wood carefully down on a workbench, where his account books lay open, with small tools and samples of wood strewn carelessly on top of them, then he moved the glue pot off the heat. ‘How may I help you, Master Elyot?’
‘I need a new scrivener’s desk,’ I said, extracting from my scrip a careful drawing, over which I had laboured for several evenings.
‘I need it to be adjustable, allowing the working surface either to be set at a slope for writing, or flat for illuminating, so that the inks will not run while they are drying. With an upright rack above it at the rear to hold the text being copied, and on either side of that a framework with a series of holes for the ink pots.’
He picked up a pair of spectacles from the workbench and fixed them to his nose, looping the tapes at either side over his ears.
‘Let me see.’
He took the paper from me and scrutinised it. I had written in the measurements of the various parts, and was quite pleased with my drawing.
‘Hmm.’ He picked up a fine stick of charcoal, and began to amend the sketch. ‘You will do better with sturdier legs. There will be a lot of weight in this, and the one thing you do not want is for it to be unstable. Like this.’
He drew in wider legs, with cross-pieces bracing them.
‘It cannot be too wide,’ I said. ‘The room where it will be used is not very large.’
‘Then we can brace the legs like this instead.’ He rubbed out his first lines with his finger and made a fresh drawing. ‘Oak, do you want?’
‘Aye. The best quality you have. With a fine, smooth grain.’
‘I have some good lengths, well seasoned, the right size for this. And you will want a pair of weights to hold the book open on the rack. I can affix the cords to the back, so when a single sheet is being copied, they are out of the way.’
I nodded. Shippan had made a scrivener’s desk for me bef
ore, the one Roger now used, though this would be more elaborate. No doubt he also made them for the colleges and the religious houses. He would know best how to turn my drawing – which now seemed to me somewhat crude – into a fine desk.
‘Last month I made a desk for Durham College,’ he said, ‘and designed a new device for it. The brother asked for a shelf where he might keep his box of gesso pellets and another of gold foil, separate from the inks. I will show you.’
He rummaged amongst the papers on his workbench, then handed me a grubby sheet of poor quality paper containing an exquisite drawing of a scrivener’s desk, which made my attempt look like something Rafe might have drawn in a careless moment.
‘You see?’ He pointed with his stick of charcoal. ‘I made this small shelf, with a lip all round it, so that nothing might roll off. It is on a swivel, so that it may be drawn forward close to the working surface when it is needed, then swung back out of the way when it is not.’
It was simple, but ingenious.
‘Then let us include such a movable shelf on my desk,’ I said. ‘I can see that it would be most useful, especially when applying the gilding. That is done after the drawing is completed in outline, but before the coloured inks are applied.’
‘I will calculate you a price.’ He turned over the lovely drawing as if it were a useless scrap, and wrote rapidly on the back with his charcoal stick.
‘Will that suit?’
The total came to one and a quarter marks. Considering all the materials and the work involved, it seemed a fair price.
I nodded. ‘Aye, that will suit. I should like a few embellishments, perhaps some carving on the sides, and on the outer frame of the rack at the top. Could you add in the cost of that?’
He raised his eyebrows, no doubt wondering why I should want something so fine for a scrivener’s work desk, but he made no comment. He rubbed his cheek with the end of the charcoal, leaving a black smear amongst the fine sprinkling of sawdust.
‘Another shilling?’
I shook hands on it. He added the additional shilling to the account, and I made my way cautiously down the outer stair, with both drawings carefully tucked into my scrip. He followed me down, glancing aside to the main workshop, where I could see, through the open door, one of the men turning what was probably a chair leg on a lathe.
‘Do you take a booth at the fair this year?’ I asked.
‘Aye, but only for small goods, bowls and platters and cups, and suchlike. I will take orders for large items, or tell customers that they may see them after the fair in my shop, but I’ll not risk the better things at the fair itself. You’ve heard the rumour about possible trouble.’
I had heard none of these whispers myself, but both the potter and the carpenter would have more dealings with the ordinary townsfolk than I did. Most of my customers came from the university or the religious houses. Only the richer sort of townsmen, or their wives, bought books.
‘Do you really think there will be trouble? And if there is, surely they will leave their fellow townsmen in peace?’
He shook his head. ‘We are all the more to be hated. By taking part in the fair, we may be regarded as leaning to the priory’s side in the dispute. But I cannot afford to lose the business. I always do a brisk trade in these smaller items, and my lads have been storing up a stock of them for several months now.’
I nodded. These would be apprentice pieces, made by the boys while they were learning their trade, leaving Shippan and his journeymen free to work on the more elaborate pieces.
‘And when do you think you will be able to turn your hand to my desk?’ I said, pausing at the mouth of the alley.
‘I can make a start tomorrow,’ he said, ‘when I have finished what you saw me working on.’ He rolled his eyes. Seeing my puzzled look, he laughed. ‘A parrot stand, if you please! The wife of the present provost of the Guild Merchant has acquired a parrot, brought back for her from his last voyage, by that son of hers who goes trading with the ship his father harbours in London. A parrot stand! To be carved and gilded like a grand lady’s bedposts! Have you ever heard the like? Aye, I’ll start your desk tomorrow. That’s honest work. Call round tomorrow sennight, and you may see how I am progressing.’
‘I will do so.’
I looked at his spectacles, which he had left dangling precariously by the looped tape over one ear. ‘Where did you buy your spectacles, Master Shippan? My journeyman has need of a pair for close work, but the goldsmith in Northgate Street who used to sell them has shut up shop.’
‘Aye. He’s away to London. Said there were not enough wealthy customers in Oxford to keep up his business here. I bought my own spectacles at the fair two years ago. There’s a merchant comes most times, who imports them from Venice. They are costly, but I would not be without mine, for the fine carving. And for writing up my account books. As I’ve grown older, my sight is less use for close work.’
‘I shall try there, then.’ I raised my hand to him in farewell.
I left, heading up Fish Street past the Guildhall. Glancing aside at it, I hoped the provost’s lady’s parrot lived long enough to enjoy its perch. These foreign birds can be delicate, though ’tis said that, properly cared for, a parrot may live as long as a man, or even longer. As I passed the turn to St Mildred Street on my way home, I smiled to myself. It would not be long before I would carry the new desk up there, to take the place of that woefully shaky table.
Ahead of me, I caught sight of a familiar figure. ‘Jordain!’ I called, quickening my pace.
He paused, and looked round, smiling. His scholar’s gown, I noticed, had another tear, ill cobbled together. I wrinkled my nose.
‘You are a poor seamstress, Jordain,’ I said. ‘Margaret could stitch that up for you so that it would not show.’
‘I could not presume to ask.’
‘No presumption. You cannot lecture in the Schools in that gown. You know that Margaret regards you as a second young brother. I have never quite outgrown childhood in my sister’s eyes, and you are no better. Besides, it will entice her away from her cookpots for a time.’
His puzzled glance reminded me that I had not seen him since before our foraging expedition to Headington Hill. At this time of year he was always busy settling new students into Hart Hall and preparing his own lectures, though I believe he could have delivered them in his sleep.
‘Come,’ I said, taking him by the elbow. ‘I am sure you have a few minutes to spare and I can tell you about the new venture which is afoot, and which is coming near to turning my premises into a workshop of jam makers.’
We were nearly at the shop and I had reached the end of my explanation, when we came face to face with Edric Crowmer, vintner and town constable, stomping up the street, glowering.
‘What’s amiss, Edric?’ I asked. ‘You look as though you have lost your life savings.’
He grunted. ‘I have just been having words with Hamo Belancer.’ He sniffed contemptuously. ‘I went only to remind him of the meeting in the Guildhall this evening, and have had my ear chewed off, again, about his French properties. Does not every living soul in Oxford know of his grievances? If he has a case, let him take it to the king. Perhaps His Grace will launch another campaign merely to recover Hamo’s lands for him.’
Once again Jordain looked puzzled, but I realised that, being more gown than town, he might have escaped Hamo Belancer’s complaints.
‘Like Edric here,’ I said, ‘Hamo Belancer is a vintner. He deals mostly in ale now, and some of the poorer sorts of French wine, though he used to sell the finest quality.’
‘No better than mine,’ Edric said, jealously.
‘I think I have passed his shop,’ Jordain said, ‘but never bought from him. Near Mary Coomber’s dairy, is it not?’
‘Aye, not far. Well, Hamo’s father was a Frenchman, married an Oxford woman, but left her and the boy here alone much of the time, while he managed his large estate in Guyenne. A fine, wine-growing estate.’
> ‘So he would have us believe,’ Edric said, in tones of disbelief.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘he used to sell excellent wines. I remember from my early days as a student. Whatever the case, the father died, Hamo inherited his French property, but left it in the charge of a manager, though he would visit it once or twice a year. Then, after the king’s campaigning a year or two ago in France, and despite our successes, the French managed to annex some of England’s lands in Guyenne, including Hamo’s property. He has lost both his wines and the rents from his tenants there. From being one of the richest merchants in Oxford, he claims he is now impoverished. He thinks the king should fight to reclaim those lost lands, despite the current truce.’
‘He could always do homage to French John,’ Edric said sarcastically, ‘since he prides himself that half his blood is French.’
‘Perhaps he might find it difficult to remain as an English merchant in Oxford,’ I said mildly. ‘After such an act, at such a time of repeated warfare between our countries. Like as not King Edward will retake those lands sometime in the future.’
‘Hmph,’ Edric said, ‘I wish you every success in persuading him of that.’ And he walked off to his own shop.
‘Both of them members of the Guild of Vintners,’ I said to Jordain, as we went on down the street. ‘That is probably the meeting of which he spoke. And no love lost between them, as you have seen. But every trade has its common interests. No doubt one of those interests tonight will be a shared complaint about loss of trade during the fair.’
‘But might they not take a stall at the fair?’ Jordain asked.
‘Aye, certainly they might. But they will say: Why should they pay the priory for a stall or a booth, when they have better premises of their own, just a short distance away, here in the town? And their goods are heavy to move, whether they roll their barrels to the fair ground or trundle them in barrows or handcarts. Then there would be damage to the wines through being stirred up. It is a reasonable grievance, more reasonable than complaining to the king about the loss of lands to the French.’
