The Merchant's Tale

by Ann Swinfen

  Someone behind us whispered loudly, ‘I did not come for a lesson in history.’

  Several people hushed him.

  ‘Now,’ said the player, ignoring the interruption, ‘the princess Frideswide, or Frithuswith as some called her, was an exceptionally beautiful child, but she also loved God above all else, and we begin her story one day when she came to her father, while still a young girl.’

  The player drew one of the curtains aside, and King Dida stepped on to the stage. He wore a long robe of rich crimson, trimmed with fur and with what looked very convincingly like thread of gold embroidery. He wore a crown, but a discreet, modest crown (probably brass) studded with ‘rubies’ and ‘emeralds’.

  King Dida was followed on to the stage by the princess. This was the crucial moment. The women’s parts were always played by boys or men, sometimes with unfortunate and ludicrous results. I hardly dared to look up.

  The players had found the perfect boy for the part. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with a voice not yet broken, and a face as sweet as one of the carved angels in St Frideswide’s church. He was clad entirely, and simply, in white, with a thin circlet of gold atop a head of thick chestnut curls. I glanced down at Emma. She was smiling.

  The princess told her father that she had sworn herself to God and to celibacy, and begged that he would enable her to build a monastery.

  ‘In Oxford,’ she said, ‘close by the sweet waters of the Thames, where both men and women may live a holy life, devoting themselves to God’s worship.’

  King Dida promised that he would help her, if she was quite certain that she wished to give up the world. ‘For you are yet young, and know nothing of men.’

  ‘I know that men can be as devout as women,’ the girl said, innocently.

  The king shook his head, and smiled, but he agreed that he had a plot of land which he would give her. Here he made a grand gesture in the direction of the present day St Frideswide’s Priory.

  Plans for founding the monastery went ahead, and the two retired behind the curtain to consult.

  Their place was taken by a big, swarthy man, bearded, and dressed all in black, but magnificent black, real velvet, I thought, with much richer fur trimmings to his robe than those of King Dida. Likewise his crown was a splendid affair, its height making him even more imposing and intimidating.

  ‘King Algar am I,’ he announced, in scornful tones, ‘though some call me Æthelbald. All of Mercia I hold in my hands, and all my subjects must obey my will, or die. They tell me that the daughter of my subject king Dida is the fairest maid in all the world, yet she would hide herself away in a nunnery. It shall not be so, for I WILL have her, though she flee from me.’

  He swaggered across the stage and departed, through another gap in the curtains, accompanied by a chorus of hissing and booing from the crowd.

  The first player, the one I thought of as the storyteller, returned to the stage. Behind him, some others from the company brought out a wickerwork frame, on to which green branches had been tied and woven. They set it up to the left of the stage, and slipped away.

  ‘Alas,’ the storyteller announced, ‘the Princess Frideswide must flee before her monastery is complete, for the evil Algar has come to Oxford, intent on carrying her off against her will. She must escape him.’

  The princess appeared on the stage, gasping breathlessly and pressing her hands to her chest, then she fell on her knees, and raised her clasped hands to the sky. ‘Heavenly Father, I beseech you, save me from the clutches of the wicked King of Mercia.’

  She scrambled to her feet. ‘I must hide me. I shall flee to the Wychwood. There, he surely will not find me.’

  She hid behind the branches, and only just in time, for Algar strode on, swearing in a most unroyal manner, stamping about the stage and looking everywhere except behind the bushes.

  He turned to the audience. ‘Where is she, you misbegotten churls? I’ll hang you, every last man of you, if you keep her hidden.’

  These threats were met by jeers from the audience, and he stormed out in a rage. Almost at once, from the other side of the stage, there entered a decent looking couple who, from their plain homespun attire, were country folk.

  ‘She is hereabouts, I am sure,’ the man said. He had a strong resemblance to King Dida, but surely it could not be, for he had sprouted a fine, full golden beard.

  ‘Come forth, my maid,’ the woman said, ‘us’ll care for ye. Be not afraid.’

  At this the princess emerged from her hiding place and the three went off together. The storyteller, who had remained quietly at the side of the stage, stepped forward again.

  ‘The princess remained some while with the farmer and his wife, tending the sheep and pigs, cooking and sweeping and mending the fire. As a princess, she had never done such things, but she was humble, and learned willingly. Then word came that she was sorely needed back at the monastery in Oxford, so with many tears she bade the kindly couple farewell and set off on the road back to Oxford. But alas!’

  Here he gave a great shout. ‘Algar heard that she was on her way, and pursued her, even to the edge of Oxford itself!’

  At this point, a rumpus broke out at the back of the audience, and everyone strained to see what was happening. Suddenly we glimpsed a slender, copper-headed figure desperately thrusting through the crowd toward the stage. Somehow the princess had slipped around from the stage without our noticing it, and now was here amongst us. Close behind her came Algar. He had almost reached her.

  ‘People of Oxford,’ the storyteller on the stage cried out, ‘will you let this evil man catch the maid?’

  We all knew the story. ‘Never!’ we shouted.

  Hands reached out to grab Algar. Someone tried to trip him up, but somehow he fought his way through and climbed awkwardly on to the stage close behind the princess who turned to face him, her hands clasped in prayer.

  Algar gave a great cry and fell to his knees. ‘I am blind! I cannot see! Lord God, forgive me, I swear I will not touch the maid.’

  A great cheer went up from the audience, as the blinded and humbled Algar groped his way off the stage. Once he had gone, the princess departed, behind a different curtain. The narrator resumed.

  ‘Princess Frideswide completed the building of her monastery, and her fame grew, not only amongst her beloved people of Oxford, but far and wide throughout Mercia. Then one day, there came to her a nun from Binsey.’

  The princess returned to the stage, now with an abbess’s habit over her white gown, a crozier in her hand. A nun, accompanying her, turned to her, pleading.

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ she said, in a voice not unlike the farmer’s wife’s, ‘we are greatly troubled in our nunnery by lack of water. We have no well, and every drop we use must be carried a long, long way. Many hours which should be spent in prayer are wasted in the endless fetching of water.’

  ‘We need only ask of Our Father,’ the princess – now an abbess – reassured her. ‘Behold!’

  She tapped three times hard on the stage with her crozier and suddenly a spout of water shot into the air from behind the bushy branches. There was a gasp of amazement from the crowd, as the nun raised her hands in joyful wonder. The abbess blessed her, and they retired from the stage.

  ‘And so,’ the storyteller said, ‘St Frideswide ended her days in the monastery she had built, where today stands the Priory of St Frideswide, and where, from her tomb, she still watches over all her beloved people of Oxford.’

  He withdrew, to rapturous cheers from the audience, who were delighted to have our own saintliness – in saving the young saint from the lecherous king – so publicly acknowledged. Perhaps the high tone of the piece was a little marred when two of the players came round collecting our approval in silver coins.

  ‘How do you suppose they contrived the fountain?’ Emma said, as she took my arm and we began to walk back toward the fair.

  ‘Best not to ask, you will spoil the illusion.’

  She laughed.
‘Well, the play was not the work of a great poet, but they told a noble story with respect and piety.’

  ‘They did. And they made us all feel that we were there, protecting innocence and purity against evil and cruelty.’ I sighed. ‘I wish it were that easy.’

  She was quiet until we had passed out through the gatehouse.

  ‘I suppose for some women, the monastic life is the fulfilment of a dream. It lifts them on to some higher plane, brings them closer to God. Do you suppose it is something lacking in me, Nicholas, that I could not feel that?’

  ‘We are all different,’ I said. ‘We must all find our way through this life in our own way. I do not see why we should not be close to God, even living a secular life.’

  ‘You are probably right.’ She smiled at me. ‘Last day of the fair tomorrow, and I must work hard.’

  ‘I shall see you home afterwards,’ I said. ‘Oxford is apt to turn rough at the end of the fair, when the youths of the town suddenly realise that the holiday they have grumbled about has come to an end. They will be taking their last chance to get cup-shotten and roar about the streets. ’Twill be no place for a woman.’

  ‘There is no need for you to see me home.’

  I shook my head. ‘I shall come for you.’

  Chapter Ten

  The final day of St Frideswide’s Fair had arrived. As is so often the case, the end of any long festival is a mixture of relief and sadness. All those buyers who had hesitated over purchases had second thoughts and hurried back to the remembered stall, either to find a bargain or be faced with disappointment. The stall was gone! Nothing left but a gap in the street of stalls, some abandoned litter, some trampled grass. Up and down the fairground, the stallholders, their feet aching, their voices hoarse, were trying to sell the last of their goods at unreasonably low prices, to avoid carrying them back again to London or York or Wales or Brabant. Tonight they would celebrate at the town’s taverns and inns, which would now be free to entertain all comers again, and many would spend perhaps too much of their earnings.

  Sadness could be felt in the air, too, at the end of one of the town’s greatest entertainments. To be sure, we had our own feasts and festivals, but only at this one time of the year could we gape at the foreign merchants and their exotic goods, marvel at the Babel of foreign tongues, and wonder wistfully about the strange places they would return to, which we would never see. And there was something melancholy in watching the bright fairground city gradually being dismantled and vanishing away, for many of the merchants would not linger even to the end of the final day. If trade had been good, and they had a long journey before them, some would pack up their remaining stock early, to make a start on the way to their homes or to the next great fair, leaving the streets of stalls looking like an old man’s gap-toothed grin.

  First thing in the morning, before she set off for her last turn of duty at the fair, I asked Margaret what I could do to help.

  ‘Shall you need more hands to pack up your goods this evening?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘There will be enough of us, and little left of our stock. We have decided to stay until the trumpet is blown to close the fair. Our small pots of preserves and our sweetmeats are the sort of thing folk will buy at the last minute, not like some costly saddlery or several bolts of silk damask. Those are the serious purchases, all made by now. But even the great merchants, as they prepare to close down, may buy a bag of comfits for a wife or sweetheart.’

  I laughed. ‘You have become a shrewd merchant yourself, this last week.’

  ‘I think I shall not do it again next year,’ she said seriously, ‘though when we come to share out what we have earned, it will be good to have the extra chinks.’

  I nodded. In the ordinary way of things, Margaret had only what I could give her from the takings of the shop, after my scriveners had been paid and my necessary materials purchased. I could understand that she might be glad to have in her hand money of her own.

  ‘And Roger will bring Mary’s handcart, to fetch away everything?’

  ‘He will. And then we must pay him for sleeping in our booth every night, on guard. It cannot have been comfortable, and after the fire at the gatehouse it cannot have been restful.’

  ‘Nay, I have said that I would pay Roger. It was my suggestion that he should be your night watchman, and I shall pay him.’

  She argued a little at this, but I was firm.

  ‘Alysoun is a little envious of Rafe’s monkey,’ she said. ‘Master Winchingham’s blue linsey-woolsey is beautiful, but she cannot play with it.’

  ‘I thought, if you do not need me, that I would take them for a final visit to the fair. Peter Winchingham told me about the stall where he bought the monkey. We could see whether there is a small toy I might buy for each of them.’

  She nodded. ‘Aye, but do not let them persuade you to spend too much. And I shall see you at supper time.’

  ‘Before that. I have said I will come to fetch Emma and escort her home. You know how it can be in town after the fair. The rest of you are familiar with Oxford, and with how to avoid the trouble spots, but she is a stranger here.’

  ‘She would be quite safe with us, I think. There will be Mary, Beatrice, Maud and I, as well as Roger with the cart. But, if you have promised–’

  ‘I have. So I will see you then.’

  The children were delighted at the prospect of another visit to the fair, although I warned them that I had heard the dancing bear had already left. Rowan was handed over to Walter to mind, and before we left I sent Alysoun to fetch Jonathan Baker to come with us. I did not think the boy had had any chance to visit the fair, and his father would not need his help until he prepared the dough in the evening, ready for tomorrow, the first fresh baking in a week.

  With my troupe of children, I made my way to the fairground for almost the last time, and stopped first to buy a comfit each for them from Emma.

  ‘I shall be here shortly after the fair closes,’ I said. ‘I know you must help to pack up, but it will be dark soon afterwards.’

  ‘There is no need, Nicholas. I shall be quite safe with the others.’

  ‘You will be even safer with me.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You will be carrying a sword, then?’

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘My very presence will be enough to affright any Oxford rogues.’

  At which she laughed and shrugged, but did not attempt to dissuade me further.

  Next, the children and I called on Peter Winchingham, who was supervising the wrapping of his fine cloths in canvas covers, keeping just a few on display to show to any late buyers.

  ‘Where shall you store your goods until your barge is returned?’ I asked. ‘They can hardly bring it upriver until late tomorrow.’

  ‘Nay, not that soon. The day after that, at least,’ he said, ‘with the current against them and the wind in their faces. I have made an arrangement with the Mitre. They have a storeroom we can use – the place is like a coney warren! My men will start moving some of my stock this morning, and we will have all stowed away before the fair closes. For the last hour I shall just be selling my ends of bolts, small lengths for children’s clothes, mostly.’

  ‘I will tell my sister.’

  ‘And you will be with me at the Mitre, midday tomorrow?’

  ‘Aye, and the sheriff too,’ I said. ‘Let us hope your fellow with the books suspects nothing.’

  ‘Not as yet, I think. And I may leave much of my stock at the Mitre for now. If I am to move my business to England, there is little point in shipping it all over to Bruges again. I shall go back to arrange matters finally with my son, and stay for his wedding, but then I plan to move to England, with my daughter and my younger son, before winter sets in. The crossing is unpleasant in the bad weather.’

  ‘It will be good to have you nearby.’ I grinned. ‘Perhaps I can help you to build up your library.’

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps you can.’

  I sent Alysou
n running back to tell Margaret about the bargains in short lengths of cloth, while I asked for directions to the Bavarian toy stall.

  Like all the best merchants, the Bavarians, a husband and wife, had sold most of their stock, but, confronted by three eager children, they cheerfully laid out what was left. Jonathan was immediately drawn to a slingshot, and I thought nervously of his neighbours’ reaction, were he to be let loose armed with such a weapon. Seeing my alarm, the woman brought out from below the counter a carved box.

  ‘See. Can you open?’ she asked, in a thick accent.

  ‘Of course!’ Jonathan said scornfully. He began to wrestle with it and the woman winked at me.

  While he was struggling, Alysoun was fingering everything laid out on the counter. Like Jonathan, she wanted a slingshot, but I shook my head firmly. There was another monkey like Rafe’s, which she picked up and set climbing up its stick, but clearly she wanted to be different from her little brother.

  Jonathan was turning the box over and over, running his fingernail over the carving, searching for an opening.

  ‘Can I have that top?’ Rafe asked.

  ‘Do you know how to make it spin?’ I asked.

  ‘Maysant has one, and I can spin that.’

  At least we had one decision. Alysoun finally picked up, to my surprise, a wooden doll with a painted face, which viewed the world with surprise. It was jointed simply at shoulders and hips, and dressed rather crudely in clothes similar to the woman’s – exotic, foreign, and, I supposed, Bavarian. Alysoun had never before shown an interest in dolls, but I tried to hide my surprise.

  ‘Juliana has a doll like this,’ she said, ‘only not as pretty. She says her brother William gave it to her when she was little, so she will keep it always. If I have this, I will keep it always, and remember the fair and the dancing bear.’

  ‘You make clothes, Ja?’ the woman said.

  Alysoun nodded. ‘My aunt has a whole basket of scraps.’