The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  But it wasn’t. With no staghounds and bleary-eyed in the early-morning light they looked about in vain for the herd. And on foot how were they going to cover the distance?

  By a fluke they stumbled on a covey that rose from where they’d chosen to lay up during the night. In a frightened body they fled along the edge of the woods where they would pass on either side of the bush where Perkyn was waiting with his bow.

  With a rush of anxiety he raised and sighted, desperate to do well. The deer came on in a frantic, close-packed throng but he had the wit to settle on one only and loosed his arrow. As they raced past he saw it, the arrow plain in its shoulder, blood streaking bright as it ran.

  The rest disappeared into the brush followed by his wounded target, now stumbling. In a fever of excitement he crashed after it, hearing Wilkie and the others coming up behind. They passed him quickly, for with his withered ankle he could only limp along, but he caught up just as Wilkie put the knife to the creature’s throat.

  They began hacking and cleaving in a frenzy of fear and exhilaration. A haunch was drawn clear and stuffed into a bag, Wilkie had the head detached and threw it into the low undergrowth. A saddle portion came away. They were going to do it!

  Then, out of the morning like a trump of judgement, came the sound of a horn. Another much closer replied.

  ‘The foresters! They’re on to us – run!’

  They dropped everything and fled. Heart in his mouth Perkyn went after them, desperate to reach the edge of the woodland, off the baron’s land.

  He saw his friends get there one by one and make off across the common to the anonymity of the village, but sobbing with the realisation, he knew that with his ankle he couldn’t move any faster.

  With yards to go he heard the thunder of hoofs and in despair found his escape cut off as a horse wheeled in front of him and crashed to a stop. Its dark-featured rider, in forest green and Norman helmet with the arms of the puissant Baron D’Amory on his chest, looked down in evil triumph.

  CHAPTER 5

  The stone was cold and damp and the cell stank of fear and vomit. Nearly witless with terror Perkyn trembled uncontrollably.

  He’d been bound and taken on horseback in front of everyone to the castle, the great edifice that had dominated the village from time out of mind, a feared and mysterious presence.

  He’d been dragged into its maw. The reality was terrifying: colossal stone walls towering high, with men-at-arms, traders, brightly costumed servants and serving maids mingling in a constant babel of noise and so many great doors that crashed shut with a finality behind him.

  A hard-faced official questioned him, seated at a table strewn with objects – he had no idea what they were. The man spoke in thick-accented English and made asides to others in a foreign language he couldn’t understand.

  They’d demanded he name his accomplices but he’d stoutly refused.

  He was stood roughly against a wall and beaten then asked again. Through the pain he vowed that he would not condemn his friends.

  Finally he was taken away and thrown into the cell.

  Outside a moon-faced turnkey in stained leather tunic sat on a stool, bored.

  ‘Wh-what’s going to happen to me?’ Perkyn ventured through the peephole of the door.

  ‘Shurrup!’ ordered the man absently.

  ‘Please! I’m frightened.’

  ‘What you done, then?’

  ‘We took a deer.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s poaching, is it? Well, they takes you up before the bailiff and you answers for it. If His Nobbs has had a good dinner he’ll just cut off your hands, else you’ll swing on the end of a rope. Any more fool questions?’

  In a stew of fear Perkyn shrank back hopelessly.

  Some time later he heard voices. The lock rattled and the turnkey stood impassive in the doorway.

  ‘On your feet, m’ little rascal. You’ve done bad by having a go at the baron’s game – he’s making a big noise that he wants a trial quick smart, make an example, and the bailiff don’t disagree.’

  Two men-at-arms entered and seized Perkyn.

  The Great Hall of Castle Ravenstock was vast and gloomy – and to one who’d only known the village, terrifying.

  Seated on an imposing chair on a dais at the far end was a richly dressed man who could only be the baron. To one side was a table with officials and clerks and on the other a small pen where Perkyn was led.

  The hall fell to a stillness and a hard-featured man at the table stood and glanced at the baron, who nodded irritably.

  The man rang a bell and droned on from a book in Norman French, then looked up and rapped a command.

  A forester in green marched up to the table.

  ‘Upon your evidence the prisoner Perkyn, yclept Slewfoot, stands accused of the taking of a deer, contrary to the Forest Law. Is this then the man?’

  ‘It is, My Lord.’

  The cold eyes turned to Perkyn. ‘Do you dispute this?’

  What could he say? He’d been seen running from the carcase and had been caught on the baron’s land.

  ‘Christ’s bones, you ill-faced lackwit. You did it, didn’t you?’ roared the baron.

  In a small, shaking voice Perkyn answered miserably, ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  The bailiff intoned importantly, ‘In confessing to your misdeed you have been—’

  ‘Get on with it, my man! You know what to do.’

  The bailiff drew himself up. ‘Therefore I find you guilty. The felony having no mitigating circumstances requires I pass sentence on you to suffer the full rigour of the law. You shall hang.’

  For a moment Perkyn couldn’t believe it – then with a roaring in his ears the full force of the words hit him. He was going to die.

  Back at the cell the turnkey shook his head as he pushed him in. ‘Told you, didn’t I? No good to come of taking down one o’ Baron Hooknose’s very own.’

  They came for him in the late afternoon.

  Stumbling and uncertain he was led out into the daylight, his hands bound and his knees weak and trembling.

  Would it hurt? He felt tears pricking – he was leaving the only world he knew, harsh and unforgiving as it was, and it would condemn his mother to … to …

  Outside the castle walls was the gallows, a simple raised platform. Stark above it a rope hung down.

  A crowd was gathering. Chattering, laughing, staring, they were held back as he was brought near.

  Perkyn was prodded up the short ladder to where the hangman waited with heavy patience. Next to him stood Father Bertrand, his long face pale and worried.

  At the top Perkyn was rotated to face the crowd. His shaking was now uncontrollable; he was holding on to reason by a thread.

  A herald stepped forward.

  ‘As Perkyn of Hurnwych did foully trespass upon the good grace of our liege lord, Baron Everard D’Amory, in that he did slay a hart contrary to the dread Law of the Forest, he is adjudged worthy of death, for which this is your warrant.’

  The sea of faces before him held no meaning any more – the world had contracted to his tiny space in it and the sudden shock of the rough and hairy touch of the rope as it was draped over his neck.

  Father Bertrand came up to stand before him, mumbling interminably from a book he held. He made the sign of the cross then withdrew.

  Taking up the slack of the rope the hangman muttered, ‘Ready, friend?’

  In the last split second between life and death Perkyn shut his eyes while his soul screamed soundlessly in agony – and then as if from far, far away came a voice. ‘Hold!’

  Perkyn opened his eyes: Baron D’Amory was on the drawbridge, mounted atop his horse with one hand raised.

  No one moved. He spurred forward and came to a halt beside the gallows. He glanced once at Perkyn, a cold, despising look, then addressed the crowd, few of whom had ever set eyes on their liege lord. Several bowed down; others stood gape-mouthed.

  ‘One of my deer was slain. This varlet did not ac
t alone!’ His gaze swept the throng, grim and ruthless.

  ‘By the custom of frankpledge you are all and every one accountable for the actions of the villains you harbour. You have not yielded up their persons, therefore this mewling youth is paying the full price for all.’

  He drew a deep breath and bellowed, ‘I will have justice!’

  Apart from the stirring of wind there was absolute stillness.

  ‘Yet in mercy, I give to you a choosing. I will respite this hanging … if I get my just recompense. A fine levied upon all Hurnwych Green in the sum of one pound weight of silver!’

  An astonished murmur went about the crowd. The life of a villein for a stiff amercement on themselves?

  Then the cynical reason for it broke in. The baron was making a show of mercy, a calculated ploy to lessen the harshness of his act. If they were softhearted enough to pay, he’d have his silver. If not, he’d then feel free to take his revenge on the lad.

  ‘So what will it be? Who will be the first to pledge their coin?’

  Perkyn felt a piteous hope but it died quickly. These were freemen and would care nothing about a worthless bondman, not one of themselves.

  ‘Very well! Let the—’

  ‘I do so pledge, My Lord!’

  ‘Who says this?’

  ‘I, My Lord. Jared the blacksmith. Five groats!’

  The kindly smith who always had a good word for the lowly serfs and peasants as they brought their work to him at his forge over the river. Whose skills were legendary, attracting a partner and apprentice even in such a small village. But why …? Perkyn’s heart thumped.

  ‘Come along, Hurnwych!’ the blacksmith called loudly. ‘I’ve laid out my piece. What say we all give and throw off that rope around his neck!’

  There was a stirring and a shout rang out. ‘Will the butcher – twelve silver pennies!’

  A reedy voice carried over the babble. ‘Old Yarwell, franklin. Ten groats!’

  ‘Sweyn Blacktooth, baker. Four groats.’

  More pledges came – then more.

  Jared held up his hand. ‘Enough! One pound o’ silver, My Lord. As shall be delivered up before sundown. We beg now for the life of yon Perkyn Slewfoot.’

  The jaw hardened but the baron wheeled his horse around and snapped, ‘Let him go!’

  The rope was thrown off Perkyn’s neck and with a sawing at his wrists his hand bindings fell away.

  ‘Well, go on then, m’ little lamb,’ the hangman grunted peevishly. ‘You’re free, aren’t you?’

  Hardly aware of the noise and clamour around him he had eyes only for one: Jared the blacksmith who had given him back his life!

  ‘Sire, Master Jared – how can I thank you?’ he babbled, his hands writhing. ‘I can’t repay, but I – I’ll do anything for you, anything! Just tell me, I’ll do it! Anything!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Perkyn. Isn’t it you with an old mother on her own to look after? She’ll be worried where you’ve been – best you get off home and set her heart at rest.’

  In floods of tears Perkyn hobbled off, leaving Jared in the centre of a throng of villagers.

  ‘It was a rare good turn you did today,’ declared one. ‘Why did you do it?’

  He gave a twisted smile. ‘As I loathe to see the castle every time have its way with we common folk.’

  CHAPTER 6

  May Day eve

  Jared reached into the blazing forge with his tongs. In a practised whirl he extracted the long billet of iron and placed it on the anvil. He hammered at it with strong, decisive pounding, sending outwards a flying spray of sparks, listening for when his hits returned the hard ring of cooling metal.

  His father had taught him everything he knew. The family forge had prospered in the village, producing everything from door latches to ploughshares, and took in work from miles around. He had lost him to an ague some two years previously but a partner, Osbert, had been found, a steady older man now outside shaping a clay mould.

  ‘Give us a good wind, younker!’ Jared told the young apprentice at the bellows and plunged his work back into the heart of the fire. He watched the incandescence pulsate to white heat and drew out his iron again. It was hard but rewarding work, bringing a creation of value for man out of the implacable inertness of rock-torn iron, and he revelled in the sheer physicality of forcing his will upon it.

  The ghost of what would be lay within the glowing mass and he directed his blows to bring the crude billet ever closer to its outline. Already he’d drawn out the workpiece to length and now was concentrating on producing a sweet curve and at the same time a descending edge. This was going to be a scythe with the blade a full five feet long. He worked steadily, broadening and deepening the blade along the long chine, leaving the mounting tang until later.

  ‘You’ll never be done by the morrow, young cub!’ Osbert chided him, bringing in his mould to set.

  ‘I will, old man,’ Jared retorted with the confidence of twenty years. Tomorrow was a feast day, May Day!

  Jared fell to it, hammering with redoubled speed and the unmistakeable shape of the scythe blade began emerging. Two more heatings and he had a wicked pointed end drawn out and the run of the blade sighted and trued.

  A deft working with mandrel and punch and the mounting point for the sinuous long wooden handle was ready.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Osbert offered.

  The piece was formed but now it had to be worked to a hardness along its edge, and that could only be done by peening, cold beating the metal with smaller hammers in a painstaking progression down the blade. They set to together, one manipulating the work on the anvil while the other kept up a rapid tattoo with the hammer.

  At last it was done. A workmanlike tool whose hard edge only needed occasional touching with a whetstone to see many years of yeoman duty on grain or grass.

  ‘Fetch us a muzzler, young ’un.’

  While the apprentice scurried off for a jug of ale Jared wiped his forehead and sat on the floor against the anvil.

  Osbert joined him. ‘You’ll be going a-maying, then.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Maypole ready?’

  ‘Aye, it’s up. Me and Nolly did it.’

  There was a small pause, then Osbert said, ‘She’s May Queen, I hear.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Jared said casually, fiddling with his belt.

  ‘You don’t fool me, lad – young Aldith Beavis, I mean.’

  Jared said nothing, staring obstinately ahead.

  ‘Look, none o’ my business, but I seen how she looks at you with them deer’s eyes as you passes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And I seen your sheep’s eyes looking back. Now she’s of an age, like to be married even before harvest’s in.’

  ‘Leave it alone, Osbert,’ Jared flared. ‘I happen to know old Beavis went to talk with Master Frauncey and stayed a-while, must have had a good hearing. And can you blame him – a blacksmith agin a bailiff’s clerk?’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Ha! You don’t know Beavis as well as I do. He’s ruled by Hetty, his wife – won’t refuse her anything. Now, here’s my advice, take it or leave it. You get out there, open your heart to the damsel, let her know how the wind blows. She takes a fancy, goes back to her mother and they has women’s talk as will soon have Beavis ploughing a different furrow. See?’

  ‘I’m to thank you for your help with the scythe, Osbert,’ Jared said stiffly.

  The ale arrived and they drank thirstily.

  ‘Just you remember what I said. Tomorrow you has your chance – and none other after it,’ Osbert said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jared was awake before first light began stealing into the smithy house, where he lay on an oat-stuffed mattress in the family bedplace in the upper level. Maud, his mother, slept behind a curtain and two servants snored below in the smoky darkness.

  He’d thought about what Osbert had said and felt resentful that he’d caused him to hope. P
erhaps he was right that the shy maiden did hold him in thrall but he’d never allowed himself to dream. Marriages were settled by parents on the basis of family advantage, social standing or the acquiring of property, even at his level. The base villein, a field labourer, was more fortunate. He had only to gain the assent of a disinterested lord of the manor, more concerned with increasing his workforce.

  John Frauncey, the haughty bailiff’s clerk who gave himself such airs on account of his learning, would probably rise in the course of time to the position of steward in the manor house. What could he put up against this? His father’s careful husbandry had bequeathed him a fine forge and impressive array of tools and skills – but he would always be a blacksmith, earning his daily bread with the sweat of his brow.

  He could now make out the pattern of his bedspread: morning was breaking. Easing himself up he reached up the wall to where his belongings hung from hooks in linen bags. He’d laid out good silver for a new outfit – a doublet in brown and slender green hose under a flaring red jacket; pointed leather shoes and a jaunty felt hat narrowed to a peak over the nose, finished off by a soft leather purse hung from a belt.

  ‘Is that you, Jared?’ came a voice from the other side of the bay. The growing chorus of roosters, barking dogs and the like made sleep impossible now.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  She sat up and drew back the curtain. ‘So you’ll be off into the woods a-bringing in the May.’

  ‘Aye, I am, Mother.’

  ‘Just you mind what goes on in there, Jared. A goings-on as will have Father Bertrand a-worrying over souls for a sennight, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ As if he was going to miss the fun!

  Outside, the village was coming to life.

  There was a gathering throng at the well, geese were being noisily driven to the common and from afar came the shrill voice of Margery Blundel berating her meek husband, the miller’s gristman.