by Ann Swinfen
Margaret and I stared at each other, both struck with the same thought.
‘You will purchase it?’ I said.
‘Aye. I have already sent instructions to my man of law in London. It seems the business should not take long, for it is of no use to the king, whereas the value in money will be welcome. As I mentioned before, Master Elyot, I must return to Bruges, but I want to bring my daughter and my younger son over to England before winter sets in.’
‘And what is the name of the manor?’ I said. ‘You will remember that my sister and I come from those parts.’
‘It is rightly called King’s Leighton,’ he said, ‘but it is mostly known as Leighton Manor. Close by a village called Leighton-under-Wychwood.’
Chapter Twelve
At the outburst of laughter and exclamations, the merchant looked bemused. It was some time before the noise died away, and it was Alysoun who said, ‘But Master Winchingham, Leighton is our village!’
‘Your village, my maid?’
‘Aye, that is where our farm is, and our cousins. We were there, helping with the harvest. And I went to a hunt at the manor. And there was a roast swan.’
I came to Winchingham’s rescue.
‘What Alysoun means,’ I said, ‘is that our ancestors have been yeoman farmers at Leighton-under-Wychwood for generations. Margaret and I grew up there, on our father’s farm. It is my cousin Edmond who holds the land now. And indeed most of us here, with other friends, spent several weeks there, helping with the harvest.’
He smiled at Alysoun. ‘Do you tell me? And you went to a hunt at the manor? I know that the privileges of the manor include the right to venery in parts of Wychwood.’
‘I did not exactly hunt,’ Alysoun admitted. ‘But we went to the hunt breakfast in the wood. Papa rode to the hunt. And I found an arrow with peacock feathers.’
‘And there was a roast swan? That was very grand!’
‘It was very rotten,’ Margaret said, wrinkling her nose. ‘I have no time for such dishes, naught but folly and expense.’
‘I will tell you the full story some other time,’ I said hastily. I did not want the subject of the arrow with the peacock feathers to be explored. ‘But we shall be glad indeed to have you and your family at the manor. The de Veres, who had been lords there since the Normans came, have been sore missed. There will be a great welcome for you amongst the villagers. And I know that my cousin will also be glad of your coming. Indeed, there are rights of venery and rights of warren, but of greater interest to you will be the good grazing land for sheep. It is not extensive, but I know you do not plan for a large flock. The demesne contains excellent mixed agricultural land as well, plenty of arable and a dairy herd. Burford is the nearest town, but as you know, you will be within easy reach of Witney.’
I knew that the others realised that I was trying to divert him from Alysoun’s arrow, so they soon joined in, praising the pleasant situation of the village and the manor.
‘I am sure you will be happy there,’ Margaret said. ‘It is a fine house, now that the neglect of recent years has been repaired, and if you take on the former servants of the de Veres, you will be well served.’
‘Most of the customary service of the villeins,’ I said, ‘has been converted to rents in coin, but you will be able to hire plenty of day labourers in lieu. And there is a very fine cellar, laid down by Yves de Vere. You must consult the cellarer, Warin Hodgate about it. I think he is personally acquainted with every barrel.’
‘Well!’ Peter Winchingham laughed. ‘It seems a very fortunate accident indeed that the first manor I viewed was a disappointment. I must have been guided by some kindly saint to Leighton Manor. And you have the right of it, Master Elyot. I have no plans for a large flock. ’Tis but a fancy of mine to own a few sheep of my own. All my life I have worked with wool, from the clip to the finished cloth, but never owned the creatures from which we all benefit. It is time.’
I smiled. ‘The present flock there is small, but you might wish to buy in a good ram. The de Veres’ old shepherd died this year past, and since then the care of the sheep has fallen to any servant and none. If you decide to hire a skilled man, you should speak to our shepherd, old Godfrid. There is no man knows more about the beasts. He will be able to tell you where you may find a good man.’
‘I see that I have bought not only a manor,’ he said, ‘but a wealth of good will as well.’
‘Your own good will in helping Cedric Walden secure his man has done you credit here in Oxford,’ I said, ‘though you suffered for it in that stinking alley. And I would you should call me Nicholas. We stand on no ceremony in this household.’
He half rose from his stool and bowed. ‘I should be honoured, and hope that all here will call me Peter.’
‘We too should be honoured,’ Margaret said with dignity.
Alysoun opened her eyes wide. ‘And me?’
‘Master Winchingham to you, my pet,’ I said, ‘until you are a lady grown.’
She slid down from her stool and climbed on to my lap. ‘And when will that be, Papa?’
‘Not for years and years,’ I said, ‘until you are an old lady like Emma.’
She frowned. ‘I do not think she is so very old.’
Emma laughed. ‘Quite old enough to take you up to bed. Will you come with me? I know a very good story about some sheep who decided to climb a mountain.’
Rafe hopped down and seized her hand. ‘Will you tell me, too?’
‘I will, if you get quickly into your night shift.’
They climbed the stairs, the children still chattering. Margaret, I saw, was watching them thoughtfully.
I hoped that no one would mention the unhappy events that had taken place recently at Leighton Manor. Later, I would tell Peter Winchingham the full story, but I was sure that our merchant from Bruges, with his son and daughter, would cast a new and cleansing light over the place, bringing back the happy atmosphere that had existed there in my youth. Sire Raymond, I was certain, would enjoy his company, two booklovers who could share their passion.
Our talk turned to the dreadful events of recent days, the death of Hamo Belancer, the prior’s attack on his own church, and the intended assassination of the prince, until Margaret put an end to it, saying it was not a fit subject for a tranquil evening. When our guests began to stir and talk of leaving, she said firmly that she would brew up some spiced ale.
‘For it is turning colder now. It will warm you from within, before you venture outside.’
Emma had joined us quietly after settling the children.
‘I will escort you home,’ I said. ‘There may still be some of the town rowdies about the streets after the fair.’
‘Nay,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘There is no need. Peter goes back to the Mitre and we may walk together, and with Jordain too, most of the way, but you would need to return alone. Your back must still trouble you. I know that you have had many broken nights of late. Get you to bed and let your body heal itself.’
There was no shaking her from this, so perforce I must yield.
‘Will you be at home tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘I should like to discuss your next book with you. Walter is most pleased that you will make the book of his mother’s stories, but he tells me that he has several more still to write down.’
‘Is there nothing else?’ She looked wistful. ‘I have had enough of cooking and selling at the fair to last me a year. I long to return to inks and parchment!’
Margaret began to ladle out the hot spiced ale. ‘Have a care!’ she warned. ‘’Tis hot enough to burn your lips. Leave it a while.’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I had almost forgot. The Lady Amilia has ordered another book, which she demands must be made by the same scribe and illuminator, and bound to match her book of hours. Perhaps in time she will require an entire library!’
I saw that the merchant was listening with interest, with enquiry in his eyes, but not spoken. There was little need to keep silence when everyo
ne else here knew what was intended to be a secret.
‘Emma worked in the scriptorium when she was a novice at Godstow,’ I explained.
At this his eyebrows went up, but he was too polite to exclaim at this unexpected revelation.
‘Another time,’ I said. ‘Emma herself may tell you all her story when there is more leisure, but she never took her final vows. Let me show you.’
I fetched that first book of hours which had opened my eyes to Emma’s skills and laid it before him. He turned the pages delicately, stopping from time to time to exclaim, or to laugh at the sly jests she had slipped into the pictures. When he laid it down, he looked at her with a new respect.
‘You made this, mistress?’
She nodded, colouring.
‘She has made another book of hours,’ I said, ‘for this Lady Amilia – a wealthy customer of mine. Demanding, but not as learned as she would have us suppose. And now she has ordered another book.
‘But, Nicholas,’ Emma said, cautiously sipping her spiced ale, ‘you have not said what this new book is to be.’
I looked at her, glumly.
‘She wants an entire book of troubadour songs, words and music both, and fully illuminated. I hardly know where to begin. I think I know the gist of one song. I know the tune at least, but I am not sure if I have the words aright. The true troubadour songs are all in the langue d’Oc. How we are to make a whole book of them, I cannot imagine.’
‘Does the lady understand the langue d’Oc?’ Peter asked.
I shrugged. ‘I find it doubtful. It will be some notion she has acquired. She and her husband were at court a few months ago. Perhaps it is the new fashion there.’
‘My daughter has a great fondness for music,’ he said, ‘though I do not know whether she knows any songs of the troubadours. I shall ask her when I return to Bruges.’
‘I thank you,’ I said. ‘My journeyman Walter said bluntly that we need a troubadour.’
‘Not easy to find in Oxford,’ Emma said.
‘Exactly what I said to Walter. I thought at first that there might be some scholar in the university who could prove of help, but I have decided since then that it is too frivolous a subject. What do you say, Jordain?’
He had been listening, without comment, and now shook his head.
‘I can think of no one, and you are right, Nicholas. Anything as lovely and light-hearted as the songs of the troubadours would probably be beneath the notice of our scholars.’
‘Not always light-hearted,’ Emma objected. ‘I think many tell of lost loves and broken hearts. I remember when I was young and impressionable, a troubadour came to my grandfather’s house and sang such songs, though I cannot remember them now, only their melancholy. He was very handsome, that troubadour, in a soulful way.’ She grinned at me. ‘I was quite in love with him for months.’
Peter laughed. ‘I think you will like my daughter, mistress.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘lacking a troubadour, I look to you all for help in filling this book as the Lady Amilia requires. Without the songs, there will be nothing for Emma to work with.’
Soon after this Emma, Jordain, and Peter took their leave. I went with them into the street, and watched them head up the High, Emma between the two men, an arm slipped through each of theirs. I regretted losing a little more time with her, but I knew she had the right of it. Sitting for so long on a stool had set my back aching. I could feel where some of the slashes had bled and the priory shirt had stuck to the drying blood. It would be a painful business removing the shirt, but I had promised Margaret that she might salve my back tonight. She had little faith in whatever the priory infirmarian had applied before.
When I came back into the kitchen, she was stacking the dirty plates and already had a pot of water heating on the fire to wash them. I took hold of her arm and firmly pulled her away from the table.
‘Leave them, Meg. They will wait till the morning. And leave the bread dough, just for this one night. We are both so tired we can barely stand.’
‘I cannot bear to see this,’ she said.
‘Shut your eyes, and you will not see it.’
‘At least I need not worry about the bread. Emma made up the dough before you came in with Jordain.’
‘That was good of her,’ I said, feeling quite inordinately pleased.
‘Aye, she is a good girl.’ She sighed. ‘Very well,’ she capitulated. ‘I will leave these dirty things, but I have not forgotten your back.’
‘That may be left as well,’ I said, in hope.
‘Nay, it may not. That blade was certainly dirty, and the cuts may fester. Go you up to your bedchamber and take off that dreadful shirt. Then you may lie on your face and I will salve your back. Off with you.’
I saw that the only way to ensure that she left the kitchen untouched was to do as she bid. Removing the shirt was an unpleasant business, and started more of the cuts bleeding, which I could feel, though not see. Indeed, I was not even sure how may cuts there were.
I lay down on my bed and despite the pain I was nearly asleep before Margaret came in with a bright candle lantern and a pot of her own salve.
‘How many slashes are there?’ I asked, this being still in my mind.
‘A perfect net of them,’ she said. ‘Six or eight at least. Now lie still while I spread this on them.’
Margaret’s salve was blessedly cool and soothing, unlike the stinging potion applied by the infirmarian. I had expected it to hurt, but, to my surprise, my back even felt better after she had done with me.
‘I wish you might leave your back open to the air all night,’ she said, ‘but you will be cold.’
‘I will leave it so, as long as I may,’ I said. ‘At least I may have the bedclothes up to my waist.’
Face down as I was, I had to grope around behind me to find the edge of the feather bed. Margaret took hold of it and drew it up, tucking it in firmly.
‘That will do for now,’ she said. ‘Once the salve has soaked in you will need the warmth, so you may pull it up to your neck. Do not catch a chill.’
She tousled my hair affectionately, as if I were no older than Rafe, and bore the lantern off to her own chamber.
I fell asleep almost at once.
Although I woke once or twice during the night, experiencing more pain than I had done straight after the fight, my back felt considerably better in the morning. At the bottom of my clothes coffer I found an old shirt, softened with much washing, which I drew on carefully over my head. Although it was not as loose as the priory shirt, that one had been of much coarser cloth. I donned a warm cotte over the top, for there was no denying that my bedchamber was cold this morning. I shivered, thinking of the bitter days ahead. Although Oxford lies in a hollow formed by its two river valleys, those same rivers make the winters damp. And although we are spared the worst of the winds one meets on the hills of the Cotswolds, the months of winter here can be brutally cold. I must remember to order more logs from the forester who works on Shotover Hill, and charcoal for the brazier I keep lit in the shop during the winter months, for scriveners cannot work if their hands are cold.
When I reached the kitchen, Margaret had nearly finished clearing away the remains of last night’s meal, and even the children were helping. Rowan had discovered some spills under the table, and was making herself useful by clearing those away.
Ashamed that everyone in the family except me was hard at work, I laid out our usual simple morning fare.
‘Aunt Margaret says we may have honey this morning,’ Rafe said, wrapping his arms about my leg. ‘Is that man really going to live in Leighton?’
‘Master Winchingham, not “that man”,’ I said, disentangling myself. ‘Aye, he has bought the manor. We shall see him next time we go to the farm, though I think he will come to Oxford quite often as well.’
‘I like him. He gave me my monkey.’
‘He did indeed. Now, sit you down, my little man. Here is some of your aunt’s bread. She
is a wonder, making it fresh every morning.’
He sat down readily, but saw no wonder in the arrival of fresh bread on the table every morning. It had always been so.
‘Papa,’ Alysoun said, when we were all seated and I had spoken the blessing. ‘How long is it until Christmas?’
Margaret laughed. ‘Two months yet, Alysoun. The fair is just over, and the students newly come to Oxford.’
Like everyone else in the town, we reckoned our seasons by the coming and going of the students.
Alysoun sighed. ‘I wish it was Christmas. Now the fair is over, there is nothing to do.’
‘You have hardly done your lessons with Papa,’ Margaret said, ‘since before we went to the farm. That will give you plenty to do. And did you not say that Juliana promised to help you make clothes for your doll?’
Alysoun’s face had not exactly fallen at the mention of lessons, for she enjoyed them, but she brightened at the mention of making clothes with Juliana.
‘May I go this morning?’ she said.
‘It is too far for you to go alone,’ Margaret said, mindful that the town would not have settled yet after the fair.
‘I can take you to St Mildred Street,’ I said. ‘I have some business in Fish Street this morning, and it is on the way. You will need a warm cloak.’
As soon as we had eaten, she ran off to fetch her doll and her cloak.
‘But what can I do?’ Rafe said mournfully.
‘You and I,’ Margaret said, ‘are going to make gingerbread. You remember that you had gingerbread at the fair? Well, we can make some every bit as good.’
‘And I shall be glad,’ she said, turning to me with a smile, ‘to be back in the peace of my own kitchen. Alysoun may miss the excitement of the fair, but I am not sorry it is over. What have you to do in Fish Street?’
‘Oh,’ I said evasively. ‘I needs must see John Shippan, the carpenter. And I will also ask him to put in an order for us with the forester for more logs. I noticed last week that we have not enough in store for the winter.’
If she realised that I had not answered her question, she did not persist. I could tell from the abstracted look in her eye that she was busy taking the reins of the household into her hands again. Like me, she was happily returning to a tranquil life.
