An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  I looked around but no one was nearby. It was a hot afternoon – most people were indoors for one reason or another. One of the stable cats was slumped on the roof, fast asleep. The doves cooed peacefully from their dovecote. The chickens had dug themselves little scrapes in the shade and were dozing. There was a faint clatter of pots from the kitchens, but Fat Piers would be fast asleep somewhere. Everyone was off having a reasonably peaceful afternoon.

  I took a deep breath and assembled my Latin. ‘Sir, I tried to tell you when I first came here.’

  I stopped.

  He still said nothing, just looking down at me. The sun was behind him so I couldn’t see his face. I ploughed on anyway.

  ‘When I was in Rushford – there was an inn – I worked there for two days.’

  I stopped again. I could imagine what he was thinking – that if I served ale as incompetently as I did everything else then it was a miracle I’d lasted even that long. Well, that was fine with me.

  ‘Some men were talking. They were drunk. They said something about St Mary’s. I did not pay attention to begin with.’

  He still said nothing.

  ‘They kept calling for more ale. The landlord made them show him their money. They had plenty of money.’

  I paused again in case he wanted to tell me to stop wasting his time and sweep me aside, but he didn’t.

  ‘Sir, they were talking of riding here. In force. They said the king is seizing Lancaster lands. That all is forfeit to the crown.’

  He knew this. I’d seen those anxious conversations between him and Walter. The lookouts on the road. They were waiting for the arrival of the king’s commissioners. Admittedly, this was a very small estate and they would take a long time to get here but, as far as they knew, one day they would come. One day, St Mary’s would pass from the exiled Duke of Lancaster and into the hands of the king. The problem was that they were all looking the wrong way. It wasn’t the king they had to worry about. Trouble would come from an unexpected direction and I owed it to them to do my best to warn them.

  He said, in his slow, deep voice, ‘The king is in Ireland.’

  ‘That is why they waited, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They plan to take St Mary’s before the king returns. To take advantage of both the king’s absence and that of Sir Hugh Armstrong. When the king returns, he will have more important things to do than worry about one small manor. They think we are minor and unprotected. That taking us will be easy.’

  He stared at me for a while and then gestured with his head. We stepped into the shade.

  ‘When did you hear this?’

  ‘The day before I arrived here, sir.’

  ‘Why did you not speak of this before?’

  ‘I tried, sir, on the day you took me in, but Master Walter was displeased and I did not wish to anger him further.’

  I felt a faint stirring at the back of my neck which could have been either a gentle summer breeze or History preparing to wipe me from the face of the earth. Although to be fair, the most threatening thing around at the moment was the stable cat, a terror to the rodent population and a legendary lover, currently flat out on the roof, but more than capable of taking me on.

  ‘How many of them?’

  I struck out at random. ‘Four, sir.’ Four seemed a good number.

  ‘And their badge?’

  ‘I did not recognise it.’

  ‘Describe it.’

  Now I was stuck. I had no idea what Guy of Rushford’s badge was.

  I shook my head. ‘I cannot.’

  That’s one of the best things about being a member of the weaker sex. In modern days, they’d say disbelievingly, ‘Oh come on – you must have noticed something about them,’ but in these times, we women were subject to all sorts of womb-induced humours that daily deprived us of the ability to think, to reason and, in my case, to notice what had apparently been in front of my own nose all evening. I had to think of something. ‘The landlord said I was to serve them quickly because they were Guy’s men and used to getting what they wanted.’

  ‘Guy of Rushford?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, apparently remembering. ‘They were Guy’s men and wanted the best of everything.’

  He looked at me, hard-eyed. ‘And did they get it?’

  I knew what he was asking. Barmaids didn’t dispense just drinks.

  I lowered my eyes and said in a tiny voice. ‘They didn’t want it.’

  A perfectly reasonable response, I thought. At my age, I was resigned to working my way down men’s lists of shaggable women. Without ever having been that high up in the first place. When I looked up again he was smiling his crooked smile. And then he wasn’t.

  ‘How many men? And when?’

  I racked my brains to remember what Dr Dowson had told me about the history of St Mary’s. That the manor of St Mary’s had been bestowed by John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, in return for services rendered during the Castille campaign. That the Rushford branch of the family – consisting of the two brothers, Guy and Jerald, and I believe there was a sister around somewhere – had sought to capitalise on the chaos brought about by the king’s attempted seizure of Lancaster lands and sought to annexe this manor. They’d been repulsed by – if I remembered correctly – a strategic fire, set by Henry of Rushford’s granddaughter. Well, that bit was wrong. Even if Hugh Armstrong was Henry’s son or grandson, there was no granddaughter living here. That wouldn’t be the first St Mary’s legend we’d got wrong – I still had nightmares about 1643 when St Mary’s went up in flames and Markham, trapped on the roof, had the choice between jumping and burning. My story was true, but would William Hendred believe me? He was not a stupid man. He’d obviously heard of the king’s attempts to seize the Lancaster estates and was expecting trouble of some kind. He had lookouts on the main road – the only road, actually – in and out of the village. He might listen to me. Walter wouldn’t, I knew. I could just hear him muttering on about hysterical women, but William might.

  He did.

  We sat on the bench while he questioned me closely. How many men? What were they wearing? What was the name of the inn? What exactly had I overheard?

  Considering I was making it all up, I thought I did pretty well, inventing various villainous-looking characters who goosed the barmaids and raucously spilled their drinks. I remembered not to remember everything because that’s always suspicious and after half an hour I think he believed me. He sent me away – and I had to shoot off anyway because it was time for me to sweep out the gatehouse. I left him sitting, deep in thought, on the bench by the door.

  I know he spoke to Walter of Shrewsbury about what I’d told him because I saw the two of them talking together outside the stables. As I passed, laden with two buckets of water, they broke off and stared at me. I modestly averted my eyes from the sight of two men thinking deeply, making important decisions and doing other things my tiny female brain couldn’t possibly hope to comprehend, and went off to be bullied by the chickens again. Medieval life is not all wafting about in a long gown, wearing gauzy veils, and riding side-saddle on a prancing milk-white palfrey, you know. I was growing to hate those bloody chickens.

  No one would tell me what was going on – I wondered if Walter still suspected I was some sort of royal spy – but I know William increased the number of lookouts on the road. I’m certain he’d sent men to Rushford as well, to watch and listen.

  St Mary’s became a flurry of activity and preparation. John fired up his smithy and the sound of hammer on metal echoed around the village night and day as they repaired old weapons and forged new ones. Possessions were gathered up and packed away, including the precious glass from the windows. The tiny corridor between the hall and the solar was blocked off and converted into a strong room. This was where they packed the St Mary’s treasures. Wool, plate, glass, documents, spices and so on. When the tiny space was as full as it could be, they bricked up the other end and dragged a heavy wooden cupboard in fro
nt of it.

  Older children and livestock began to disappear into the woods. The pigs went first, driven off under the trees, then most of the poultry and chickens, crammed into small wooden cages and highly indignant. I think such valuables as the villagers possessed were quietly buried in their gardens for safekeeping. I wondered exactly what items they considered worth saving in this century. In the Great Fire of London, Samuel Pepys buried his cheeses. I can’t remember if he ever found them again.

  William and Walter walked around daily – William encouraging and urging and Walter finding fault. Men scowled at his retreating back but did as they were told. Walter had lived his entire adult life here and no one could fault his commitment to St Mary’s. He was a 14th-century Dr Bairstow. And William Hendred was his Guthrie.

  I tried not to think about that – painful stabs of homesickness could still bring tears to my eyes if not firmly kept at bay. And I knew from experience that once I started down that route it was a very short step to Leon and Matthew and panic and disorientation and despair and grief, with tears and snot and all the unpleasant aftermath of a huge crying jag. So I didn’t think about it. And it’s not as if I didn’t have alternative concerns. We were all about to be invaded. I knew the attack would not prevail, but all I knew were history book details. Attempts to steal the manor of St Mary’s were repulsed etc. etc. I had no idea who would live and who would die. Nowhere was there a list of those who would not survive. People I had come to look on as my friends. Pikey Peter, Father Ranulf, John the Smith, the two stable lads and their incessant but easily rebuffed pursuit of anything in a skirt, Fat Piers and his noisy afternoon naps. And William Hendred, who was all that stood between me and the world. I thrust that thought away as well.

  They held weapons practice every afternoon. I could hear the clash of swords outside the gatehouse. All the men were expected to participate. Those who didn’t have swords had staffs. There was daily archery practice too.

  Wandering through the courtyard one day with a bucket of chicken feed, I came upon a solitary staff, propped against the wall. No one was around and I couldn’t think who it could belong to. I looked around again. Nope. No one.

  Setting down the bucket, I picked up the staff. It was a nice one. Straight and balanced. It was obviously well used – constant handling had worn the hand holds smooth and shiny.

  I’m not bad with a staff. I once used a broom handle to knock seven shades of shit out of a really unpleasant bloke called Weasel who was annoying me at the time. This was longer and heavier and deadlier. I flexed my arms a couple of times and then stabbed forward, parried an imaginary thrust, whirled it around at low level, scything the legs out from under my imaginary foe, and then, as he was lying helpless on the ground, stepped in for the kill.

  I felt a glow of satisfaction. I wasn’t as out of practice as I had thought. Excessive spinning hadn’t dulled too many of my reflexes. If I had to, I could defend myself. I had noticed there were fewer and fewer women around every day. I was still here, however, and no one had suggested evacuating me for my own safety. I wondered whether I wasn’t valuable enough to be saved or was simply thought too weird to be in any danger. Neither was particularly flattering.

  I carefully replaced the staff as I’d found it, picked up my bucket, turned around and found myself face to face with William Hendred.

  Bollocks.

  We looked at each other for a while and then I went to walk past him. He blocked my path. We looked at each other a little bit more.

  He picked up the staff with a familiarity that told me it was his. Again – bollocks. He held it out to me. I remembered to put down the bucket and took it, my hands automatically taking up the correct position. It was far too late to pretend I thought it was just a stick. He disappeared around the corner, reappearing moments later with another staff.

  Standing in front of me, he nodded, grunted, and raised it high.

  I remembered Guthrie’s training but barely had time to get my feet sorted out before he attacked. Not hard and not fast, but he was tons better than me. As he should be.

  I held my own for very nearly five whole seconds. Then the first blow caught me gently across the upper arm. I wondered if this was some kind of humiliating punishment for my unwomanly behaviour in touching his staff. His quarterstaff, before anyone gets the wrong idea. Drawn by the noise, a couple of men appeared from the gatehouse door and I was walloped across the other arm. Someone laughed.

  I stepped back. He lowered his staff. To my right, a man said something. I looked over. He mimed holding a staff, stabbed it forwards and stamped his right foot hard. The man next to him nodded. I looked back at William, who did exactly the same thing. I was doing something wrong.

  Slowly, I copied the movement and then he came at me again. I stamped my foot down hard, all my weight was forwards, my staff flew under his guard and swept his own to one side, exposing the front of his body. I touched him gently on the chest.

  He laughed. They all laughed. He’d let me do it, obviously. He could have knocked the staff out of my hands any time he wanted. I bowed, handed him back his staff, picked up the bucket and went off to be beaten up by the chickens again.

  They came the very next day.

  Two young girls – whose job was usually to keep an eye on the geese – came tearing up the hill, shouting breathlessly and gesturing over their shoulders. Someone fetched William Hendred – not that he was ever very far away these days. He handed them each a beaker of small beer, sat them on the bench outside the gatehouse and waited.

  Walter of Shrewsbury was plying them with questions which, between gasping for breath and gulping down their drink, they had no chance of answering. William hushed him with a gesture and waited. He was very good at waiting.

  The youngest was the first to recover, with a babble of words and gestures I had no hope of understanding.

  William listened quietly, gave orders they were to be fed and seen safely on their way, and disappeared with Walter of Shrewsbury.

  Ten minutes later, it was as if someone had poked a wasp’s nest.

  Accustomed as I was to our familiar St Mary’s shambles I expected this to be rather similar. I was completely wrong. I wondered afterwards if they’d rehearsed for this. Or maybe similar things happened all the time and it was second nature to them. Whatever it was, William barked a few orders and people scattered back to the village. Women emerged from their houses bearing bundles on their backs and chivvying their children in front of them. Any remaining livestock were herded together and what looked like almost everyone who had remained in the village headed for the forest. Ox-drawn wagons trundled their larger possessions, with those who couldn’t walk sitting on the top. Everyone moved quickly but there was no panic. Everyone knew what they were doing and where to go. I was a little ashamed of our shambolic St Mary’s fire drills which never seemed to get any better despite Leon’s and Ian’s best efforts. The last pens were emptied and the long procession of people splashed across the ford, wound their way up the slope past St Marys and into the woods.

  Not knowing what to do, I stayed put by the gate and watched them go. They took less than twenty minutes to pass. I looked behind me into the courtyard. All the young boys who served in the castle had joined in the procession. The only people remaining were the two stable boys and a vastly reduced kitchen staff who stood clustered together by the kitchen door. Fat Piers was clutching a kitchen implement in a way very similar to that perfected by Mrs Mack some six and a half centuries later.

  I swallowed hard. I’m not sure if anyone’s noticed, but wherever I go there’s always some catastrophe or other and it’s not always my fault. This one certainly wasn’t. Although I’d certainly done something to warrant the scowl William Hendred was wearing as he crossed the courtyard to me. I braced myself.

  ‘Why did you not go with the others?’

  I fell back on the traditional weak womanly excuse. ‘No one told me to.’

  He stared up towar
ds the woods. The last stragglers were just disappearing under the eaves.

  ‘Go. You can catch them. Go.’

  I stepped back in case he wanted physically to reinforce his argument and shook my head. I couldn’t go. It was vital I stayed here and steered events in the right direction. Or so I told myself.

  He seized my arm and pushed me up the hill. He was a strong man. I staggered and as I nearly fell, someone shouted. In the silence, I thought I could hear hoofs. They were coming.

  I slipped behind him and back into St Mary’s, scurrying into the kitchen along with Fat Piers and his gang. Margery the washerwoman was there, too. Well, if she could stay then so could I. We looked each other up and down in silence and I couldn’t help thinking that neither of us was a shining example of attractive St Mary’s womanhood.

  Fat Piers seemed surprised to see me. I assumed he assumed William Hendred had ordered me to stay. We clustered in the doorway and watched. The big gate had been closed days ago, but now the little wicket gate was slammed shut and barred too. If I ever got back to St Mary’s – I fought down the by now quite accustomed panic – I must remember to tell Professor Rapson the big gate opened outwards and the little gate opened inwards.

  Walter of Shrewsbury withdrew into the hall. I heard the sounds of doors and shutters being slammed both upstairs and down.

  William Hendred stood in the courtyard shouting instructions. In this situation, control of St Mary’s had obviously passed to him. Men scurried hither and thither, clutching their weapons.

  Tam the Welshman, William’s second-in-charge, was leading his men towards the walls where they took up their positions. William shot one last look around at the bolted and shuttered buildings and joined them, leaning out over the walls to see.

  The walls were crenelated but were no more than fifteen or twenty feet high. There was no moat on the other side although the ground was boggy. I suspected even the smallest army would have no difficulty forcing its way in.