I have a bellyache. Emmaline’s company must have upset my digestion. I retire to the floor of my plain, cold, untinted bedchamber with a cool cloth over my eyes and a mug of weak small beer infused with chamomile.
I’m better by supper, and I grumble belowstairs to eat sparling and cabbage with antler spoons.
Up the street, Emmaline is eating honey wafers and wasting gold thread on that excuse for a veil.
“So,” says my father, “a nice surprise at dinner today.”
I sniff and stab at my sparling.
“You’re always complaining how much you miss Alice and Agnes. I thought you’d welcome the company of another young female.”
“That girl isn’t Agnes or Alice.”
My father lowers his meat-knife. “You will be pleasant to Emmaline de Coucy. Her family built this borough. Sir John was one of the first Englishmen here.”
I wrinkle my nose at my trencher.
“Cecily.” My father’s voice has an edge I shrink from.
“Very well. I will be pleasant.”
“She would make you a very good friend,” my father says as he tears off another piece of bread. “Invited to an honesti home within a fortnight of arriving—I barely believe such fortune. The saints are looking out for us, sweeting, to bring us into the graces of the town’s elite. To say naught of my taking the oath by midsummer, when I thought Martinmas at the earliest. Almost six months early! It’s most fortunate, and we must make of it what we can.”
My father can make what he wants of this place. It’ll be all I can do to run this house and keep my gowns in good repair and not get murdered until we can go home to Edgeley Hall.
God is merciful to sinners! The pack train just arrived! And at its head is Nicholas, my elder cousin.
“Cesspit!” he crows, hopping down from his palfrey and throwing his arms about me. He smells like horse and sweat and sweaty horse, but I hug him hard. It’s Nicholas, the lopeared oaf who puts horse apples in my shoes and hides my hairpins, but my throat is choked up as if I’ve swallowed too big a bite of pie.
“I could really use a mug of your strongest,” Nicholas says, clasping my father’s wrist, “but first let’s set this lot to their labor.” He gestures to a group of ragged men hovering like locusts at the corner of the house among the crowd of laden mules. “I hired them without the walls. Will they understand a word I say?”
My father shrugs. “Usually there’s one or two who will.”
“Very well.” Nicholas bawls at them, as if they’re hard of hearing. “Unload the mules. Put things where my lord of Edgeley”—Nicholas claps my father’s shoulder—“bids you. A penny per man when you’ve finished.”
One of the laborers steps forward and speaks in tongue-pull to the others. I freeze right there in the yard with Nicholas’s arm still about my waist.
It’s him. The one who looks at me.
Of course he’d be a Welshman. I should have marked him by his stabley manners and his scruffy gray tunic that’s laced all crooked, revealing far too much in the way of dirty collarbone.
I ought to bid Nicholas knock his front teeth in, just on principle.
But Nicholas is already halfway inside, telling my father of the journey and the river crossings and an inn in Chester where the girls did some shocking things. I turn and follow ere he has a chance to look at me.
My father sits at the trestle table with Nicholas and laughs and brags and hears the news, so it’s my task to tell the laborers what goes where. In my own house and with two armed men present, the laborers wouldn’t dare try to murder me. But I’m on my guard nonetheless.
I don’t look at the men. I look at what each is bearing, then point with sweeping gestures and use small words so mayhap they’ll understand. Hall. Kitchen. Abovestairs. Workroom. They nod and duck out and do as they’re told. Like dogs.
Dogs do not murder.
The laborers heave and haul and tote from midmorning well into the afternoon. They sweat like oxen and they’re twice as filthy, but by sunset our little house actually looks like a house. There are cooking pots and fireplace tongs and linens and saints be praised, my bed is finally here and strung together.
As soon as one of the men brings up my coffer, I carefully lay our altar cloth within, next to a bunch of dried flowers from Edgeley’s garden and my mother’s handkerchief, the one she pressed to my bleeding palm when I tried to imitate her slicing bread on a trestle I could barely see over.
When the mules are unloaded, the laborers look and smell like an army of pigs. One poor wretch has jammed his thumb so badly it’s turning purple. They line up in the gutter while he hovers at the front door, waiting to be paid. Like as not he’s looking at me even now, but I’m stringing my embroidery frame in the workroom and ignoring him for the beast he is.
And I can ignore pretty well.
Apparently my father can, too, for it’s quite a while ere he groans up from the trestle and clumps outside while pouring coins into his hand. He sifts through them, then drops a halfpenny far above each sweaty palm. By the time my father gets to the one who looks, there’s a lot of grumbling down the filthy line.
“Beg pardon.” His English is singsonged by the tongue-pull. “A penny was promised us for this work.”
“You were promised nothing of the sort,” my father replies. “Half a penny is more than you deserve, so get gone lest you’d have the Watch on your backsides.”
I come to the window in time to see a shadow of rage move across the boy’s stubbly jaw. Half a penny might be more than they deserve, but I’d be wroth too were I denied what was promised me.
But he only grunts something in tongue-pull to his mangy fellows and they troop down Shire Hall Street in a cloud of sweaty dust.
At supper, we celebrate with a haunch of mutton with sage. The trestle is set properly with linens and pewterware. I sleep like a babe in arms in my own bed.
God is indeed merciful to sinners.
Nicholas is here two whole days ere he works up the courage to lay out the terrible news. My thieving uncle Roger has posted banns. He will marry a girl half his age at midsummer. Which means there could be an heir to Edgeley Hall by next Easter.
I could be stuck here forever. And there’d be naught to do for it.
I wonder just how much penance I would have to do for praying her barren.
My father is taking his burgess oath ere the month is out. I have nothing to wear.
There’s the green kirtle that was small on me last year, which hovers around my calves as though I’m a ratty little waif. I may as well brand UNMARRIAGEABLE on my brow. The yellow surcote has a gravy stain in the lap that no amount of fuller’s earth can remove, and the alkanet kirtle is barely fit for rags.
My father cannot think I’ll stand before the whole town wearing one of these excuses for a garment.
As soon as I’ve finished supervising Mistress Tipley doing the marketing, I go down the road to the common stable just within the walls. My cousin is there, brushing his palfrey.
“Nicholas.” I lean prettily on the stall. “You love me, do you not?”
“I do, Cesspit. You’re my favorite cousin.”
I’m also his only cousin, but that’s a tired jest. “How much do you love me?”
Nicholas combs the horse’s flank with long, chuffing strokes. “Not enough to do whatever it is you want of me.”
“I only need someone big and strong to escort me around this filthy place.”
“And?”
“And . . .” I make my voice small and sweet. “And lend me the price of a new gown.”
Nicholas pops up over the horse’s rump. “Hellfire, Cesspool, do I look like a man with the price of a gown?”
“All right,” I grumble. “Be mean and pinch your pennies. But come with me. Please? You’re going to miss me sorely.”
He groans and tosses the comb onto a ledge, mumbling something unflattering about women. I let his remark fall, though. Doubtless he secretly likes
ferrying me around. I must look fair upon his arm, and if Fortune favors him, people will mistake me for his sweetheart.
We head up High Street and turn on Castle, where I spot a swinging sign bearing a faded ship. At the counter is a falcon-faced graybeard measuring cloth nose to fingertips. He looks up as we approach.
“G’morn, my lord. Have you come for wool?”
“Something suitable for a gown,” I jump in, ere Nicholas can ruin things. “For a special occasion.”
The merchant glances at Nicholas, who nods. Then the merchant turns to me and holds out the wool he’s been measuring. “There’s this, just back from the fuller. A good tight weave.”
It’s just minnet. I frown. “What else have you?”
“This ochre is fair.” The merchant brings out a scrap.
I pet it and it’s like sand. “Surely you’ve something better.”
The merchant glances again at Nicholas. My cousin shrugs. Then the merchant holds up a finger and disappears into the shop. In a moment he’s back with the most beautiful bolt of finespun I’ve ever seen. It’s the color of fresh blood and as soft to the touch as a lapdog. I pet it and pet it. I cannot take my hands off it.
“How much?” I ask.
“Fifteen shillings a yard.”
I blink. Even Nicholas looks a little stunned. Horses can cost less. “W-well, I’ll take it. My father will come with me on the morrow to settle up.”
“Beg pardon, demoiselle, but without some kind of surety, I cannot hold the wool for you. I could sell it to half a dozen buyers by the morrow. It’s right off the boat from Flanders.”
I must have this wool.
“Nicholas, what do you have of value?”
“Sorry, Cesspile, all I’ve got is gold plate,” my wretch cousin snipes in a most flippant way.
I must have this wool.
The merchant holds the bolt close to his heart like an only son. Nicholas folds his arms and leans on the window frame as if this is boring somehow.
I swallow hard. “How about an altar cloth? All stitched in gold thread? It has two dozen saints. Took a whole year to make.”
The merchant shrugs. “I’d have to see it.”
“Nicholas, my dearest cousin, the kindest and most selfless Christian ever to—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll go fetch it,” Nicholas grumbles. “Where is it?”
“Folded in the coffer in my chamber. Nicholas, you are simply the most—”
But he’s striding up the street like his cloak is afire. One little favor and he’s worked himself into a lather.
In less than two Credos, Nicholas is back with a familiar packet that he slaps hard into my belly. I ignore him and unfurl the altar cloth like a grand banner. The merchant makes an approving little noise and puts out a hand.
I hesitate.
The linen is soft as a mare’s flank. The saints are peaceful all in a line. Alice and Agnes would never speak to me again if they knew.
I push it into his hands all at once. “Take care with it. It’s dear to me.”
The merchant folds the altar cloth into a tidy square. “This’ll be enough to hold the wool. You’ll get it back when I’ve been paid in full. Your father will return on the morrow to pay?”
“Oh, indeed, my lord,” I reply. “Mayhap even today. The sooner, the better.”
But as the merchant begins to unfurl the wool for measuring, a tall cock of a man slides up to the market counter and smiles all teeth at Nicholas.
“You are a foreigner,” the cock-man says to my cousin.
Nicholas frowns. “What do you mean?”
“And trading on a Wednesday. Amerced a penny.” The cock-man holds out his palm.
Nicholas squares up. “I made no trade.”
The merchant draws back, clutching his bolt of finespun. “I knew not, Pluver. I swear I didn’t.”
“I made the trade.” I step before Nicholas and glare a brace of daggers at this wretch Pluver. “My father is Robert d’Edgeley, and I will see you cartwhipped for your baseless threat against my kinsman, you filthy swine.”
“Robert d’Edgeley.” Pluver squints thoughtfully. “Newly of Shire Hall Street. Not yet admitted to the privileges and still a foreigner. That makes you a foreigner, too.” He holds out his hand. “A penny.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” I reply through my teeth, “but I’ll not give you a single blasted thing merely at your word.”
The merchant has withdrawn and stored the bolt of finespun out of sight.
“You are a foreigner trading on a day that is not Saturday, the recognized market day in Caernarvon,” Pluver explains, as if I’m a halfwit. “You are amerced a penny for this trespass. In my hand, or it’ll be Court Baron before the bailiff.”
I sneer. “I’m not a foreigner. I market every day with Mistress Tipley and she said we owe no market tolls. She said only the Welsh must pay tolls.”
Pluver seizes my wrist and it stings like sin. Nicholas starts toward Pluver, but the brute says, “One hand on me and I’ll haul you in for assault, lad, and then you’re waiting on his Grace the king’s itinerant justice. Six months at best.”
The filthy swine drags me through alleys and greenways. My hem is a mess and my wrist afire. If anyone ought to be hauled before Court Baron, it’s Pluver. We go up and over and up to a tall timber building in the shadow of the castle. It’s the Justice Court and no more than ten doors from my own.
Nicholas is my shadow till we arrive, then he mutters something about bringing my father and disappears like an angry ghost.
Justice Court is lit by braziers and two big windows with ornate shutters. There are lecterns and rustling clerks and the moldy smell of damp parchment. I’m sat on a bench and told to keep still. The bailiff barks at me whenever I so much as shift.
My backside is sore. I could do with a cup of wine.
My father arrives, Nicholas on his heels. I leap up and move to throw my arms about my father, but he curtly bids me sit and pulls Pluver and the bailiff into the corner. They mutter like conspirators.
I sit. My father will demand they apologize for the rough way they treated me. For putting hands on me right in the street like they might some red-handed felon.
It’s several Aves ere my father returns with the bailiff and Pluver. I rise, brush dirt from my gown, and prepare to receive my apology with grace and dignity.
“. . . appreciate your discretion and understanding in this matter,” my father is saying to the bailiff. “You have my word it’ll not happen again.”
I smooth my hair and glare at Pluver.
“As soon as your daughter has begged my pardon,” Pluver says to my father, “she can be quit of this place. Doubtless you of all men have no desire to see the inside of Justice Court right now.”
Nicholas will explain. He’ll tell my father how I was goaded into defending him and ill-served as a result.
But Nicholas won’t even look at me. His back is turned. Like everyone else’s.
“Papa, I—”
My father squeezes my elbow and fixes me with such a look that I grit my teeth and mutter to my toes, “Begging your pardon, my lord.”
The words taste of sulfur.
Pluver has agreed to forgive the amercement for trading on an unlawful day since no trade was actually made, but I am being amerced a half-penny for calling an official of the borough a filthy swine. It’s been entered into the rotuli and everything, and I will be required to present myself at Court Baron to answer for it.
Now in the sight of God and Crown, I’m a slanderer. I will die an old maid surrounded by twenty cats.
My father steers me out of Justice Court by the elbow and propels me up Shire Hall Street. “What were you thinking? Haven’t you the sense God gave a goat?”
“Papa, I—”
“Do you realize the weight of this matter? How will this look to the honesti who vouch for my good name before mayor and community?”
“It’s not my fault!”
/> “And whose fault is it?” My father is turning purple. It’s most unflattering. “Christ, Cecily, that levelooker was ready to bring Nicholas in! Nicholas, who taxed the goodwill of his lord to safely bring our belongings all the way out here!”
I pull my arm free. He’s hurting me. “How was I to know? How could you let them treat me like one of the Welsh? Amercing me for trading.”
“That half-penny is coming out of your clothing allowance, Cecily, and going right to alms for the poor. And you’ll stay in the house a solid se’ennight.”
“That’s fine!” I shout back. “Because I don’t want to even look upon you for twice that long!”
I’m in my chamber ere I recall that the wretched merchant still has my altar cloth. Our altar cloth. And God only knows how I’ll get it back now.
I cannot bear to stay housebound for a whole se’ennight, so at cockcrow I busy myself with things that will put my father in a kind and favorable mood. I air all his linen and replace the birdlime flea-traps in his chamber. I make a whole pottle of the sage wine he favors, then I brush all the snarls out of Salvo’s tail.
When my father comes in for supper, the trestle is perfectly laid. The pewterware shines. The pottage is still steaming. There’s even a bunch of violets tied with twine arranged on the broadcloth.
For a while, the only sounds are chewing and the snick of meat-knives. I wait till my father has emptied his mug and poured himself another. Then I clear my throat.
“I regret that Nicholas almost got amerced. I’ll ask his pardon when he’s back from the Boar’s Head.”
My father snorts quietly. “What in God’s name were you even trying to do, you silly creature?”
“My garments are a mess. I thought to get some decent wool to make a gown for your burgess oath-taking.” I give him Salvo-eyes. “I would hate to reflect poorly on you.”
“What a sacrifice for you,” my wretched father drawls.
I stab at my supper. If he would mock me, I’ll not speak to him for a fortnight this time.
“Sweeting.” My father lowers his meat-knife. “Until I take the oath, we’re foreigners. It may seem difficult to believe, good English that we are, but until I have the privileges we’re legally no better than the Welsh.”
The Wicked and the Just Page 4
