Medieval Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  He glowered at her. “On the contrary, I think you’ll sleep at my feet where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I’ll get another sleeping pallet brought in right away,” said Roger eagerly.

  “Nay, she’ll use yours and you’ll sleep in the great hall from now on, squire,” said the baron, making his way across the room.

  “But my lord, how can I serve you when I’m not at your side?” Roger ran after him, but Muriel just stood there and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t like the sound of this at all, and was sure he was only doing it because he knew she didn’t want to sleep at his feet in his chamber.

  “Don’t fret, Roger, I’ll send Muriel to fetch you in the great hall if I need you.” He turned to look at her, and though she wanted to respond to that, she figured she’d be better off not saying a word. Because if she complained, there was no telling what he’d come up with next.

  “See that the horses are cleaned from the filth of the town, and that the stableboy feeds them as well,” Nicholas instructed his squire. “Then polish my weapons and take the rust off my armor – there is no telling when I’ll need to use it.”

  “At once, my lord,” said the squire, heading off to do as instructed.

  “And what will I be doing right now?” asked Muriel from across the room.

  “Well, you won’t be standing there with your arms crossed and your mouth pursed like an old shrew.”

  “What?” That took her by surprise, and she put her hands on her hips now. “I do not look like an old shrew.”

  “Nay, you’re right. With your hands on your hips and your breasts jutting out, I’d say you look like more like a strumpet showing off your wares right now.”

  Her hands dropped from her hips and her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say a word.

  “If you’re to be my Personal Clothier, than you need to start spinning some wool. I have my father and brother visiting soon, and I’ve decided to throw a grand feast in their honor. The other barons of the Cinque Ports will be here as well, since there will be a big trade fair in town and on the wharf next month. I’ll need something new to wear. Walk with me as we discuss it.” Muriel did as ordered.

  “I told you, I am mainly a spinster. I can cut cloth and sew clothes, but if you want the best weaved cloth, then my brother is the man for the job.”

  “Fine. I’ll send for him soon, but first I’d like to see what other skills you have in this chamber.” They stopped outside a large wooden door.

  “My lord?” She wasn’t sure what he was asking, and was afraid his bedchamber was on the other side of the door.

  He nodded with his head, instructing her to enter first. She put her hand on the latch, and taking a deep breath, she quickly opened the door and stepped inside. Her mouth fell open when she saw where she was, as she had never expected this at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Muriel stood open mouthed, looking at the grandeur of the chamber she’d just entered. A woman stood at a large upright loom against the wall, with a tapestry in progress. The threads were woven beautifully in designs of various colors. Another horizontal loom was unused, and pushed into the corner. Horizontal looms weren’t as common as the vertical ones, and were also more expensive. They allowed the weaver to sit instead of stand while they worked. Her father had always wanted a horizontal loom for as long as she could remember, but they’d made do with their vertical one instead. If only her father could see this now.

  Ladies sat sewing around the solar, chatting in soft conversations. They jumped up once they noticed Nicholas enter the room.

  “My lord, we didn’t expect you,” said one woman dropping her sewing into a basket on her lap, then putting it aside to rush over to greet them.

  “Muriel, this is Lady Constance. She is Sir Stanwick’s wife,” Nicholas introduced them.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Muriel with a quick curtsey.

  “Lord Nicholas, we have only seen you a few times ever in this chamber. What brings you here today?” asked the woman. She was short but jolly, and wore a russet kirtle with long tapered tippets – or sleeves, that hung to the ground. They were loosely attached at the shoulders, as sleeves were often taken off when one worked so they wouldn’t get in the way. Since the sleeves were the most expensive part of any gown, they could also be removed and attached to another gown once the dress became old, ripped or soiled beyond repair.

  Lady Constance wore her hair in a tight black braid down her back, with a white wimple held on by a metal circlet around her head. All of the women in the solar were dressed in fine clothes, and this surprised Muriel since they weren’t in a castle, but rather only a manor house.

  “Muriel is my Personal Clothier,” he explained. They walked around the room, and Nicholas introduced her to each of the women in turn.

  “There are fine things here,” said Muriel, reaching down to inspect the contents of a sewing basket. Inside there were scissors and spring-loaded shears and tin snips. Full coverage silver thimbles as well as ring thimbles that exposed the tip of the thumb were embellished with ornate hand-punched swirling designs into the metal. She saw lucets – the two-pronged tools used for making lace and cords – and these were constructed of bone. An assortment of pins with ornate colorful beaded heads stuck out from a small cushion.

  She picked up a long metal case on a string and opened it. The top was attached to another string, and the whole thing was obviously wore around one’s neck. “A needle case!” she exclaimed excitedly. Her father had carved her a wooden needle case, but she’d never seen such a grand one, and made of metal before.

  She looked up to see the large distaffs – long forked poles, some taller than herself, wrapped with wool to be spun, leaning against a wall. Big baskets were filled with flax and hemp that would be used to weave linen. Then she spied lots of bolts of cloth sticking out of several trunks across the room, and her heart sped up faster. It was more fine cloth in one place at a time than she’d ever seen before.

  “Feel free to do as you please here,” said Nicholas, giving her the permission she’d longed for.

  She picked up her skirts and ran across the room giddily, feeling like an excited child at Christmas, waiting for the black pudding to be served. She opened one trunk after another to find bolts of dyed cloth made from wool, taffeta, velvet, the fine woolen cloth called scarlet, and even some silk.

  “Do you like what you see?” Nicholas walked up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. She felt the heat of his body right through her clothes.

  “You live like a king,” she said, not able to comprehend how one person could have so many fine things.

  “I must admit, I like spending money,” he said with a grin. “Muriel, I want you to see the new loom. My last clothier died before he could show anyone how it works. I was hoping you could decipher how to use it.”

  She didn’t know if he was saying that to be polite or he really did need her skills. Still, she didn’t question it. She hurried across the room and now stood before the horizontal loom and studied it. It was nothing like she’d ever seen before. There was a pedal attached underneath, and she stepped on it. Part of the loom rose up, to her surprise. She released the pedal and jumped back and laughed, falling against the baron’s chest.

  “It’s a foot pedal to lift every other warp thread instead of having to weave them by hand,” she exclaimed. “And look at this.” She picked up the heddle bar, cradling it in her hands. “This is slipped through here like such . . . pulling the thread.” She demonstrated by using the pedal to lift the threads, slipping the boat-shaped bar horizontally through the opening, coming out the other side. “Then when you step on the pedal again, it lifts the other threads, and the heddle goes back the opposite direction. Oh, this is so exciting. My brother would love to see this!”

  Nicholas watched Muriel’s excitement, only causing his own excitement to grow for the girl. He knew damned well exactly how the loom worked, and hadn’t needed to ask her. He
’d made sure to find out everything about the loom before he bought it from a merchant from Spain in the first place. Still, he wanted her to have the pleasure of figuring it out on her own. For some reason – he wanted her to feel important. He also wanted to see her excitement about a trade that she and her family had been doing her entire life.

  “I will send for your brother to join us on the morrow,” he told her.

  “Really?” She looked up with a newfound life in her eyes. “Can my friend Cecily visit as well? Her family is in the trades also and I know she’d like to see it too.”

  “Then consider it done.”

  “Tell me, Lord Nicholas. If you have all this, and also all these ladies to sew and weave for you – then why do you need me?”

  He hadn’t been expecting this question. Truth was, he didn’t really need her. He wanted her. That was different. But he couldn’t tell her that.

  “I need to you spin wool for me. To use, and to sell and trade as well.”

  “But . . . you have enough money that you could just buy your cloth already spun.”

  “True,” he said, nodding his head, wondering how the hell he was going to explain that. “But your skills as a spinster are far beyond any of my ladies.” Some of the ladies in the room looked up at that, but none of them said a word. And they wouldn’t. They were trained as nobles and knew when to speak and when to hold their tongues. “Your spun wool is quality work, Muriel. I only want the best, and you are the one who can give it to me.”

  “Oh.” She nodded and smiled. “All right, then. I can’t wait to get started. She dug into her bag and pulled out her spindle wrapped with yarn. He reached out and laid a hand on her to still her.

  “That can wait for now,” he told her. “I will now show you my manor and my demesne, and then we’ll go back to the great hall to eat, and later you will spin as we sit by the fire.”

  “I would like that, my lord,” she said with flushed cheeks. She looked to the ground and bit her bottom lip.

  “And so would I,” he said, feeling very attracted to the girl right now. He reached out and took her hand and placed it on his arm, and she looked up in surprise of his action. “I shall escort you to the great hall my la . . . Muriel,” he said, catching himself and stopping as he’d almost addressed her as Lady. What the hell was the matter with him? He crossed the Ladies’ Solar and headed out the door, feeling like the girl on his arm was so much more than just a merchant’s daughter – and wishing that it were true.

  Chapter Nine

  After a tour of the castle, the orchards, his entire demesne and even the battlements, Nicholas brought Muriel back to the great hall to eat. He sat on his padded, armed chair at the dais, the only ornate chair in the entire hall. His steward sat at his left and Muriel on his right. The girl wasn’t nobility and didn’t belong sitting above the salt, but she was a guest. Often times he sat his guests alongside him for a meal. At the table next to Muriel was Brother Germain. Sir George, one of his best knights, sat at the opposite end.

  “I have never seen anything like this,” said Muriel with the innocence of a child as course after course was delivered. First came the roasted pheasant stuffed with acorns and currants and smothered with a spicy sauce, then fresh mackerel and whiting from the sea. There was even a fiery yellow custard dyed with saffron.

  “Why is he not in chains?” snapped Sir George as Henry walked forward with a carving knife in his hand, ready to carve the wild boar. A guard was right behind him. “And you let him have a knife? Egads, Romney, what are you thinking?”

  “Sir George, I’d like to remind you to still your tongue,” Nicholas warned his knight.

  Henry looked upset, and so did Muriel. Nicholas knew he should have reprimanded the man in some way, but still wasn’t sure what to do with him just yet.

  “Carve the meat, Henry,” Nicholas said with a nod of his head. “And where is my Tart de brymlent?”

  “Here comes your tart, now, my lord,” said Henry, nodding as a serving wench laid the tart down on the table in front of him. Nicholas’s favorite dish was the combination of haddock and cod mixed with spices, figs, and raisins and then baked into a crust with prunes atop, shiny with glazed sugar.

  Henry carved the meat excellently as usual, and placed the prime cut on Nicholas’s trencher. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “Nay,” answered Nicholas. “Just be sure to appear at the manor court at first light for your punishment.”

  “Aye, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” he said with a bowed head and continued toward the kitchen with the guard at his heels.

  “What will you do with him?” asked Muriel, looking up to him with wide eyes.

  “Aye, have you thought of a fit punishment yet?” Sir Stanwick took his cut of meat next and put it on the trencher between him and Sir George. The trencher was basically stale bread used to hold the food. It was customary to share a trencher of food with the person sitting next to you, as well as a cup.

  “He should be hanged and pulled apart limb from limb for attempting to escape three times now,” grumbled Sir George.

  “Oh my, no!” Muriel held a hand to her mouth at the horrible thought.

  “If he is dead, it won’t be any better than if he’d run away,” Lord Nicholas pointed out to the man, breaking the tart open with his spoon. “And I would be short one servant either way, wouldn’t I?”

  “But it would be a lesson to the rest of the servants not to try to leave,” said the knight, stabbing a hunk of meat with his eating knife and shoving it into his mouth. “And how about the girl?”

  “What about the girl?” he asked, knowing what the knight was going to say next.

  “I heard she hid the servant away,” he said, chewing on a piece of meat. “So whatever punishment he has . . . she should have as well.”

  “She is also a freeman of the town,” said Nicholas. “And unless you’re forgetting, they govern themselves. My jurisdiction is the port and my manor only.”

  “But the girl is in your service now,” Sir Stanwick pointed out. “So she really is an inhabitant of your manor. I agree with Sir George, this could be your decision my lord.”

  “Possibly,” said Nicholas. “But she may have to be tried in both my court as well as in town.”

  “The guilds hate me because of my father,” Muriel broke in. “Please, Lord Nicholas, don’t let them decide my fate.”

  “There will be no more talk of this tonight. Now everyone eat.” Nicholas looked upward to the gallery above their heads and clapped his hands. Instantly, the musicians started up, drowning out any more complaints that he didn’t want to hear.

  The monk leaned over and spoke to her in a soft voice. “Muriel, I am so sorry about your father, and that you lost almost everything. I didn’t want to take your horse, but I had to because you owed the church money.”

  “I understand, Brother Germain,” she said softly, but Nicholas knew she really didn’t.

  “I also have to warn you that if you can’t pay the rent next month, I’ll have to evict you and your brother.”

  Brother Germain was Nicholas’s half-brother, as they both had the same father, but the monk was born from one of his father’s mistresses. “Brother Germain, find someone else to rent the shop,” interrupted Nicholas. “Muriel and her brother will be living at the manor from now on.”

  “Really?” asked the monk. “But they are freemen.”

  “I understand that. And I’d like you to remember that Muriel is still renting my marshlands, so she is a merchant and landholder as well.”

  “But . . . there are no sheep on the land, my lord,” said the monk. “So why does she even still rent the land?”

  Good question, thought Nicholas. And he knew he needed to remedy that quickly. “Perhaps the church would like to rent the land from Muriel to let their sheep graze,” he suggested, looking at his half-brother with raised brows.

  Brother Germain laughed. “Why would we do that? After all, we hav
e our own land. The church is one of the biggest landowners in all of England.”

  “And without the protection of me and my men, your lands and buildings will also be the first attacked the next time trouble comes to our docks.”

  “My lord? Are you saying that unless we keep our sheep on your marshlands, you’ll not protect us anymore?”

  “Of course not,” he said, picking up his goblet and taking a swig of wine. “That would not be chivalrous, and also a direct act of defiance to both the bishop and the crown.”

  He looked over to see Muriel and the monk exchanging confused glances.

  “Now about my tithes I so generously bestow upon the church every spring and fall harvest – I might have to cut back since I have other expenses now.”

  “My lord, you know the church is grateful for the generous tithes you bestow upon us.”

  “Why don’t you show me just how grateful you are?” He looked at the monk and smiled sarcastically.

  Brother Germain put down his eating knife and wiped his hands in a cloth that he kept on his lap. “Nicholas?” he asked, addressing him in a familiar way.

  “Germain?” Nicholas answered, drumming his fingers on the table, waiting for his answer.

  Finally, Germain just released a sigh and shook his head. “I suppose I could talk to the abbot and see if we could move our sheep to graze somewhere else.”

  “How many head of sheep does the church have now in New Romney, Brother Germain? A hundred? Two?”

  “Three hundred, my lord.”

  “And I’m sure a new pasture for a hundred of them wouldn’t even be a problem, would it?”

  “Oh course not,” the man mumbled, and blessed himself as if he were warding off the plague by his actions.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Nicholas, digging his spoon into his tart. “Now everyone, please continue eating. I have hired a wandering minstrel to entertain us as soon as we are finished.”