by Jodi Taylor
The guard, Owen was his name – a man I knew slightly as one of Tam the Welshmen’s cronies – shook his head at every question. He’d taken over from onion man at midnight. I’d slept the night through. I’d barely moved. He’d sat on the window seat, cleaned his sword and mended his belt in the light of a single candle. No, he had never left me alone. Yes, he’d barely taken his eyes off me. No, I hadn’t left the hall at any time. I hadn’t even woken once.
How could he be so sure, demanded Walter. It was dark. There was almost no light.
‘Didn’t need it,’ he said woodenly. ‘She snores. All the time.’
William nodded. ‘Yes, she does.’
I nodded too. Yes, I did. Leon had remarked upon it once or twice.
What of onion man? demanded Walter. I say onion man because that’s what he always was to me. I think his name was Barden and they referred to him as such but, in my head, he was always onion man. Anyway, whatever his name was, there was no sign of him. He’d gone and his gear was gone, too.
You’d think that would be a clear indication of his guilt, wouldn’t you, but Walter, not one to let facts get in the way of a healthy prejudice, leapt back into battle claiming we’d been in it together. A claim so ridiculous I felt safe leaving others to deal with it while I concentrated on my throbbing face.
A rather lively three-sided argument was brewing nicely when Tam the Welshman entered to say a rope had been found tied to one of the upper windows in the north tower. Someone had evidently got out that way.
And, said William Hendred, the door between hall and the scullery had been locked all night. Yes, the scullery door to the kitchen had been open, but to access it, I would have had to leave the hall and cross the courtyard. Someone would have seen the movement, no matter how careful I’d been. And the two scullions slept there. If questioned, they would be able to say whether I’d been there or not.
Owen took the hint and slipped away, returning in a moment. No, they’d said – and I could near the note of regret in their voice – no woman had visited them during the night. Onion man had come in to fill his beaker though.
Walter subsided. Owen was an honest man and believable. And the scullions had no reason to lie. I waited for Walter to accuse me of being in league with them, but I think the fight had gone out of him. A sensible man, he was now turning his attention to dealing with this crisis.
Both wells were now under guard. Not because it was too late, but to prevent anyone drawing water and topping up any buckets of fresh water that remained uncontaminated. Owen went off to count beer barrels. When he returned, I could see by his face that it wasn’t good news.
I ignored my face, stared at the floor and had a bit of a think. I should leave. I should slip quietly away and leave them to do the heavy lifting in the thinking department. I was only a woman. Having a womb probably meant I’d have to use all my powers of concentration just to get down the stairs. They’d forgotten about me so I should just go.
So, obviously, I stayed and pushed my luck.
I’ve had more than my fair share of coping with disasters. The secret is to find something you can work with and ignore everything else.
I sat in one of the window seats, leaned back against the shutter and listened. They were talking of how many days they could last without water. Even if drinking was kept to a minimum, it wasn’t many. And if, as I suspected, onion man was now in Guy of Rushford’s camp, they would know what had happened. They would know we didn’t have long. They didn’t even have to attack – they had only to wait until we surrendered.
Or …
I stepped forward.
‘God have you in his keeping, masters. May I speak?’
Walter was still ignoring me but William turned with an air of impatient exasperation. All men have it. Right back to Adam. You expect me to do what with this apple?
‘Speak.’
‘Sir, I believe our best chance of success is to surrender. Let them in.’
I closed my eyes and waited for the other blow. It never came. After a while I opened my eyes again.
Walter turned slowly to look at William. He didn’t utter a single word but he didn’t have to. We could all feel him saying, ‘I told you so.’
No one spoke. I could feel myself losing my audience so I hastened on.
‘Sir, they will know our position by now. There is no point in trying to hide it. Therefore, I propose we should invite them in and hold a feast in their honour. With wine. As much wine as we can find. We welcome them with all the good food and drink we can muster.’
I stopped. Make them ask.
‘Why? Why would we hold a feast?’
‘To give thanks, sir, that the tyrant William Hendred has fled.’
Now I really did close my eyes and brace myself for the blow.
It never came. The tyrant William Hendred was staring at the floor looking thoughtful.
‘And then?’ persisted Walter.
‘And then, when they are drunk, unconscious, unable to defend themselves …’
‘We should kill them all?’ I could see Walter’s face crease with disgust at my female contravention of the laws of hospitality.
I mustered all my Dr Bairstow managing skills.
‘No, sir. I propose we burn St Mary’s around them.’
They reeled. Literally. There was a massive babble of protest. Already they were turning away from me. All except one. William Hendred stared at me from under his heavy brows, unspeaking.
Eventually the voices died away.
His voice sounded deep in the silence. ‘And then? What of our people?’
‘Most are already hiding in the woods. Those who can’t fight should join them.’
He folded his arms. An excellent example of intransigent manhood. ‘And those who can?’
‘Follow you to Rushford, sir. With all speed.’
For the first time ever, I saw him off-balance. ‘Why? Why in the name of Christ and all the saints would I abandon this place and ride to Rushford?’
‘To take and occupy Guy’s castle in his absence. To take from him what he would have taken from you.’
There wasn’t even a babble of protest this time. Taking advantage of the stunned silence, I pushed on.
‘We let Guy and Jerald in. More than that – we welcome them. We hold a huge feast and fill them with all the food and drink they can consume. While they are rolling in their seats and too drunk to notice, we set fire to whatever will burn and flee to the woods. They will be busy saving their horses, their gear, their lives even. They will be in no state to follow us. We hide deep in the forest. Far from anything Guy or Jerald could do to us.’
I turned to William Hendred. ‘You, sir, take every man who can fight – if it pleases you, of course,’ remembering possibly slightly too late that I was only a womb-controlled inferior. ‘You ride to Rushford and take the castle. I am willing to bet every able-bodied man they have is here now. You will probably be able to walk right in and take it from under their noses. You pull up the drawbridge and sit tight. What can they do, sir? You have their … their …’ I struggled for an expression other than power base and failed. ‘Their power base. There is nothing for them here. Our people and most of our supplies are safely away. The wells are poisoned. Yes, St Mary’s will burn, but everything can be repaired or rebuilt. Yes, they can shout and bluster, but Sir Hugh will be here any day now. I promise you that. You have committed no crime. You have done your duty and held St Mary’s for the Duke of Lancaster. Who might one day be king. And Sir Hugh is his man. The king will grant him the town of Rushford,’ I said, recklessly speaking for the new king who might, of course, do nothing of the sort, but we could sort all that out later. My priority was to save St Mary’s. ‘The revenues from Guy’s lands can pay for the rebuilding here and Sir Hugh will have all their lands and rights. He will have everything and the Rushfords will end with nothing.’
I lowered my eyes and contemplated the floor with traditional female modest
y. Folding my hands in a manner I hoped made me look both demure and trustworthy – although I wasn’t optimistic – I stepped back again.
What do you think? Not bad, eh?
Still they stared at me. I hoped very much that they were appreciating the brilliant audacity of my plan and not because they were, once again, planning to hang me.
But it all fitted. It all fitted with the little I knew about events in 1399.
‘Safe passage,’ said Tam the Welshman, thoughtfully.
William turned to him. ‘Explain.’
‘We demand safe passage for those who wish to depart. In return, we undertake to hand over St Mary’s.’
‘Without a fight?’ he said incredulously.
‘Without further bloodshed,’ said Tam, whom I began to suspect of being quite bright. A bit like Markham but six inches taller, three stone heavier, dark-haired and Welsh. Otherwise, identical.
‘And what of Master Hendred?’ demanded Walter. ‘They will never believe William Hendred would surrender.’
Tam shrugged apologetically. ‘Master Hendred’s protests were … overcome.’
‘How?’
Tam made a graphic gesture and silence fell.
I remained very still and silent because I could do no more and I didn’t want to over-egg the pudding.
Walter didn’t like it.
Well, no one liked it, actually. William especially didn’t like it, but sometimes a man’s gotta do ….
Everyone dispersed to make their preparations and then we opened the gates. The big ones. They flung them wide open and stepped back.
Guy of Rushford waited outside on horseback, his men gathered behind him. He made us wait, just because he could, and then slowly passed through the gates and into the courtyard. His horse’s hooves sounded very loud in the hot silence.
His brother Jerald rode slightly behind him on an extraordinary yellow horse. I’d never seen anything like it. It looked as if it was carved from butter. He wore a sword – Jerald, not the horse, obviously – but I didn’t mind betting he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with it. With his wet blubbery lips and runny eyes, he wasn’t the most attractive being in the courtyard – even counting the yellow horse.
Guy was different. He was a big man and dark. Darker even than Tam. His beard was forked – a ridiculous fashion – and his hair close cropped to fit under his helmet. He had a high colour. I suspected he liked his drink. Which was good news for us.
Walter received them formally in the courtyard. Behind him stood Roger, pale and trembling with nerves, with the keys of St Mary’s on a velvet cushion. With great ceremony, Walter handed them over and bowed. Not that they were needed. Every door stood open, especially the barns and storehouses, showing the little St Mary’s had to offer.
William Hendred’s men – all carefully unarmed – stood off to one side, waiting with their horses, all ready to go. I was hiding in the kitchen with Fat Piers and the others, all of us craning our necks to see what was going on. I held my breath. Would they be allowed to leave? Unharmed? I knew a deal had been struck but frankly I wouldn’t have trusted either of the Rushfords as far as I could kick them – and believe me, I could kick them a very long way. I’d never seen a more unattractive couple. And I suspected that while Guy looked vicious and Jerald unstable, I wouldn’t mind betting that Guy was the more unstable of the two and Jerald the more vicious. I wondered what their sister made of them. Or was she the worst of the bunch?
Guy made no move to take the keys, looking around him suspiciously. He knew who he was looking for. ‘Where is William Hendred?’
Walter eased his weight and looked shifty. The expression suited him.
‘Gone,’ he said, obviously begrudging every word.
I don’t think Guy was convinced. Or perhaps that was his normal expression.
‘How so?’
‘When news of the poisoned well was known, we had no option but to surrender.’
Guy looked even more sceptical. ‘Not William Hendred.’
Damn and blast. This was obviously a man who knew his William Hendred.
‘No,’ said Walter, staring at his feet.
‘Where is he?’
Walter contrived to look even more shifty. ‘Dead. He was against the surrender. He tried to prevent it and they turned on him.’
I appreciated the subtle ‘they’.
Guy looked around. ‘Where is the body?’
I held my breath and I suspected I wasn’t the only one.
Walter gestured with his head. ‘Down the well. You should warn your men – the only fresh water is from the stream.’
Neat. No body to produce. Old Walter was really good at this.
Guy was suspicious. ‘And yet, Master Walter, you are alive.’
Walter couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘William Hendred was living when they threw him into the water. I had no wish to go the same way.’
Who would have thought old Walter could be so inventive? Against my will, I was very impressed.
Guy looked down on him. He was tall enough to look down on most people. ‘And you expect me to believe you will serve me.’
Walter drew himself up and gestured to the keys. ‘I serve the master of St Mary’s.’ He paused. ‘Whoever he is.’
There was a long moment while Guy appeared to weigh what he had heard, staring around the courtyard at Tam and his men drawn up, all ready to leave. A heavily disguised William Hendred stood inconspicuously at the rear with the old packhorse.
Guy stared again at Walter, standing before him with his head bowed. He reminded me of an animal scenting a trap but unable to locate it.
It was Jerald who tipped the balance. While others had been plotting and planning, Fat Piers had his own way of preparing for disaster. Delicious smells were emanating from the kitchen. Guy and his men wouldn’t be starving, but they would certainly appreciate the meal they were about to enjoy.
‘Hungry,’ he announced.
At a nudge from Fat Piers, Dick and Edgar scuttled out with two goblets of wine. The very best wine in the very best goblets.
Guy sipped, possibly trying to preserve the illusion that, thief and opportunist though he might be, he was still a gentleman. Jerald slobbered his down any old how, a good part of it decorating his front.
I couldn’t tell what was going through Guy’s mind – I suspect no one ever could – but he appeared satisfied. Draining and replacing his goblet, he nodded dismissal to Tam who wasted not a moment. To the jeers of Guy’s men, he urged his horse out of the gates and away. The others followed him. The sound of their hoofbeats died away and we were left – alone and defenceless.
Fat Piers nudged us all away from the doors. We had work to do.
Walter was leading them into the hall, where the tables were already laid out for a massive feast. There was the best linen and the best pewter. Even more wonderful smells pervaded the hall. At the side tables, wine and beer stood ready to be served. We’d pulled out all the stops to impress. To kill them with kindness.
Walter escorted them ceremoniously to high table, seating Guy in Sir Hugh’s seat and Jerald in the one traditionally occupied by the lady of the manor. I do sometimes wonder if he had more of a sense of humour than anyone suspected.
He’d judged the situation perfectly, however. I could see the smirks and nudges among Guy’s men as they seated themselves and then Fat Piers dragged me away to do some work.
I saw Roger and Edgar run in with napkins and bowls of scented water. I myself had picked the mint leaves and arranged them artistically. My contribution to the downfall of Guy and Jerald. Apart from the original idea, of course. I could hear the rumble and laughter of a large group of men, the scrape of benches on the stone floor. I could hear the toasts and the clink of beakers as they rewarded themselves for a long day’s sieging. It was all the best quality stuff, too. We hadn’t stinted on the hospitality in any way.
Everywhere, beakers were being filled. And then replenished. Walter
had given orders that no one’s beaker was to be allowed to run down, let alone be empty. Everyone was encouraged to drink deeply. I saw Roger actually urging a man to drain his cup so he could fill it up again. We were the cowed, defeated villagers hoping that if we were nice to our conquerors then they wouldn’t kill us too much.
I peeked through the door occasionally, just to see what was going on – and because I couldn’t help myself – but both Margery and I were very careful to stay out of sight. Neither of us was what you would look for in today’s modest medieval maid, but on the other hand, a bunch of drunken conquering heroes weren’t going to be that fussy. Fat Piers kept us at the far end of the kitchen, out of sight from the hall, which I appreciated. A bastard he might be on a bad day, but he was a thoughtful bastard.
Sweat pouring down his face and dropping unheeded into the food he was preparing, Fat Piers was working like a madman. Dish after dish was carried up the stairs and paraded around the hall in the traditional fashion, to be greeted with shouts of raucous acclaim.
Some of it was surprisingly sophisticated considering what he had had at his disposal and the time constraints. There was no doubt Piers was an artist. Birds had been roasted. There was a massive amount of fish – carp caught from our ponds. Personally, I think carp is awful – it looks awful and tastes muddy – but he dressed it beautifully and everyone ate it. There were even sweet dishes made of sugar paste, almonds, pastries, and such fruit as they had been able to muster.
I took a moment from finely chopping some green leaves to wonder when it would occur to them they had been eating food cooked in water from a spoiled well. They were going to be horribly ill. Well, the ones who weren’t caught in the flames would be. Between burning and barfing, they were going to regret ever coming within five miles of St Mary’s.
I don’t know whether it was because of the noise in the kitchen – Fat Piers threw several tantrums of massive proportions, just so everyone could see how much of an artist he really was – or the sounds of general carousing coming from the hall where everyone seemed to be having an amazing time, but I never heard everyone leaving. When I stole a brief moment to ease my aching back in the doorway and breathe in some cool air, the courtyard was deserted. Most of the servants, tasks completed, had melted away. There were a lot fewer people than there had been half an hour ago. The two scullion boys had piled up the dirty dishes and departed. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Which was odd, considering the guards Guy had left at the gatehouse and the stables. I bit back a smile and returned to the heat of the kitchen.
