An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  I forgave them the injustice. I could only hope they would forgive me. Because, before he left for London, Sir Hugh had summoned me to appear before him. To account for my actions.

  The reason it’s called a courtyard is because that’s where the courts are held.

  They’d set up a table for Sir Hugh, for him to preside over, with Walter of Shrewsbury on one side of him and William Hendred on the other. Father Ranulf sat at the far end. I wondered if he was there to translate. A number of scrolls sat in front of Walter. I was willing to bet he’d itemised the damage I’d caused and costed it down to the last detail. Those scrolls were basically medieval Deductions from Wages for Damages Incurred forms. I sighed. Nothing ever changes, does it?

  I was waiting in the gatehouse – in the guardroom actually, which was a little daunting – but I had Tam the Welshman on one side of me and Owen on the other. They were chatting away to each other, bragging about their recent experiences and the parts they’d played, so I wasn’t too worried. Not really.

  Anyway, it was a pleasant day, the sun shone, nothing was on fire – although the smell of burned wood was still very strong – and I told myself it was just a formality. Obviously, the lord of the manor would want to know the circumstances under which his manor – albeit only a very small part of it – had been burned to the ground.

  I was led forward. Unsure which way things were going to go and presumably unwilling to incriminate themselves, everyone else stood well back. I felt very alone as I stood in front of Sir Hugh.

  Now that I’d seen Guy, I could see a faint resemblance between the two. You could see they were related, although Sir Hugh – or Lord Rushford as he now was – was fair rather than dark. The nose and chin were the same, though. He had stern, steady blue eyes that missed nothing. I did my best to look like someone with nothing to hide.

  He was bareheaded and wore blue, trimmed with dark red. A pair of leather gauntlets lay on the table before him. His boots were good and well cared for. There were no fashionable excesses here. His doublet was a reasonable length and covered his bottom. He didn’t wear those ridiculous shoes with the long points and his hair was neat and combed. I thought he looked very smart.

  Actually, everyone looked much smarter now the boss was home. William wore a russet doublet with matching hose and his good boots. His beard, as always, was shorter than most and neatly trimmed.

  Walter wore an old-fashioned long cotehardie of dark green with his best soft hat and proudly displayed his chain of office. I felt a sudden surge of affection for him. He was old – by contemporary standards anyway – and set in his ways, but he was loyal and brave and did his job to the best of his ability. I found myself smiling at him and hastily looked away before he noticed.

  Sir Hugh began to speak. I could understand him easily and he spoke slowly. I wondered if this was out of deference to the foreign woman and shot a glance at Father Ranulf, who twinkled back again. I suspected he knew his translation skills wouldn’t be needed but had blagged himself a place at the table out of sheer nosiness.

  I was brought forward, named, and invited to explain myself and my actions.

  I was certain Hugh would have had an input from William and I was absolutely certain Walter would have shoved his oar in as well, so I kept my improbable background story to a few sentences, while making sure I remembered to thank him for his kindness in taking me in.

  It’s not easy, this sort of thing. Not only do you have to remember the lies you told in the first place, but in medieval times you were expected to show modesty and respect to your betters at all times, while simultaneously looking them fearlessly in the eye to show yours was an honest and trustworthy character. I compromised by keeping my eyes modestly lowered when they were talking to me, and looking them fearlessly in the eye when I was talking to them. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how well that was working.

  I explained about the well while making it absolutely clear the dead cat was nothing to do with me. I mimed my shock and surprise at finding it in the well. I pointed to Owen, who blushed and shuffled and refused to speak, so I told the whole story myself, using exaggerated words and gestures and definitely not becoming so carried away that I forgot to stop just before the bit where I recommended setting fire to Sir Hugh’s home and livelihood.

  Silence fell around the courtyard. Roger leaned over his shoulder and topped up his master’s goblet of wine. I was relieved to see the Rushfords hadn’t drunk us completely dry.

  Sir Hugh sipped delicately, wiped his mouth on his napkin and said pleasantly, ‘And then?’

  ‘And then,’ I said smoothly, ‘Master Walter and Master William discussed how to turn this hopeless situation to your advantage.’

  ‘Really?’ He said, turning his goblet around and watching the light fall on it. ‘I understood abandoning my manor and burning it to the ground was your idea.’

  I stared reproachfully at William Hendred. This was 1399. I was a woman. I had been convinced they would take the credit for my brilliant idea and I could remain safely in the background – unrewarded, true, but not dead, which was always my first choice. I was quite happy for everyone to believe it was someone else’s plan and hadn’t it worked out well in the end? Especially since what would have been a brilliantly audacious plan when mooted by William or Walter would almost certainly be considered a piece of mindless vandalism when suggested by the weird foreign woman who had appeared from nowhere. I looked around at the piles of charred timbers that used to be the washhouse and the stables. A number of chickens stood atop the black remains of their former home and stared reproachfully at me. I could still hang. I had a vision of them all partying the night away on this very spot, celebrating the accession of the new king and the acquisition of Hugh’s new titles and properties while I swung, creaking, overhead.

  Oh, sod it. When 1403 turned up I was dead anyway.

  I drew myself up to my full inconsiderable height and looked him fearlessly in the eye.

  ‘I mentioned it as an idea, sir, but it was Master William who so brilliantly carried out the plan. It was he who rode to Rushford to take the castle in your name and it was Master Walter who remained here to safeguard your property for as long as was necessary.’

  ‘So if Master William was in Rushford and Master Walter was defending my halls – who lit the fire?’

  I didn’t dare look at Margery or any of them. I gritted my teeth. ‘I did, sir. I set fire to the small barn.’

  He turned to look at William Hendred who returned his stare woodenly.

  ‘Are you saying you were only responsible for the barn?’

  I wriggled. ‘In a way, sir, yes.’

  ‘So the stables caught fire by themselves?’

  He was looking at William Hendred again, who picked up his beaker and drank deeply, not catching his eye. I felt a small stir of indignation. Were these buggers winding me up? I suppose there’s no reason why people in 1399 shouldn’t have a sense of humour. Just not at my expense.

  Well, two could play at that game. I channelled Mr Markham.

  ‘Almost sir, yes. The fire travelled from the barn by itself. I didn’t set fire to the stables. Or the gatehouse,’ I said, gesturing. ‘Or the dovecote. Or the …’

  I stopped. He waited – as aware as I that the list of buildings that hadn’t burned was nowhere near as long as the list of buildings that had.

  ‘Shall we turn to the main buildings,’ he said pleasantly and so, because I can’t help myself, I turned to the main buildings, granting him a glimpse of my profile.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ he said sharply.

  I had no mirror but even I could tell the bruising from Walter’s blow was still substantial. I could easily say that he’d done it. That his suspicions of me had led him to blame me for the poisoned well and this was his punishment, but for some reason I couldn’t do it. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know.

  ‘I fell over, sir.’

  ‘Before or after you set the fire?r />
  I gritted my teeth again. ‘During, sir.’

  There was a small disturbance in the spectators and Margery shouldered her way to the front.

  Sir Hugh stared at her as well he might. She was a remarkable sight at the best of times. Today, wearing what she regarded as her best attire, she was spectacular.

  She wore a green robe that might have fitted her in her youth but not any time since. The cloth was worn very thin in places and over that, she wore a sleeveless surcoat of brown that was stretched to its very limit over her ample frame. Instead of tying her usual linen strip around her head to cover her hair, she wore a stiff wimple that framed her round, red face. With her small black eyes, she looked like a current bun.

  She bowed. Something I had forgotten to do. On the other hand, there was no modest lowering of the eyes.

  Walter whispered in Hugh’s ear.

  ‘Ah, yes. You are Margery Daw of this manor, are you not?’

  ‘I am, Lord.’

  Damn. Was he already Lord of Rushford and they hadn’t told me? Or did she address him as lord because he was lord of her manor? You see – this is what happens when you don’t get the chance to prep your assignment properly. Ignorance and arson abound.

  ‘You wish to speak?’

  She nodded. ‘I set the fire, Lord.’

  He frowned at me. ‘You said you set the fire.’

  William intervened. There was a whispered conversation the subject of which, I guessed, was my uselessness in general and my fire-lighting abilities in particular.

  ‘And I would have,’ I said, doing my best to divert attention away from Margery. Although to be fair, in her get-up that was never going to work.

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘No, Lord,’ said Margery. ‘I did.’

  ‘But I would have,’ I said, determined to shoulder the blame.

  ‘But you didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘Well, no but …’

  ‘Why did you say you did?’

  ‘Sir, I am the foreigner here. And it was my idea. The blame for all this should lie at my door.’

  ‘But you didn’t set the fire.’

  ‘But I would have, sir.’

  ‘Then why did you not?’ he shouted and I could see William was wearing his welcome to my world expression.

  I said meekly, ‘I had nothing with which to make a flame.’

  He turned to Margery. ‘So, you started the fire.’

  She nodded. ‘I did, Lord.’

  ‘Which spread to the stables.’

  We nodded.

  ‘And the kitchen.’

  We both stopped nodding. If we were outside setting fire to the barn then we weren’t inside setting fire to the kitchen. Or the South Tower.

  William, who knew perfectly well what had occurred that day, whispered in Hugh’s ear.

  ‘Step forward, Piers of Wem.’

  Fat Piers materialised beside me. So that was three of us now.

  ‘You burned down the kitchen.’

  He bowed low. ‘No, an it please you, my lord.’

  ‘You deny it?’

  ‘No, Lord. I burned down the kitchen and the scullery and the bakehouse.’

  Roger, seeing where this was going, quietly set down his flagon of wine and began to ooze backwards into the hall.

  Without even turning his head, Sir Hugh said, ‘Step forward Roger, son of Peter of this manor.’

  So that was the four of us standing there.

  William Hendred was still staring off to his left. I had no idea what could be interesting him so much.

  Sir Hugh stood up. I know I expected the worst. I don’t know about the others. Walter stood with him and they marched around the table to stand in front of us. I closed my eyes.

  Hugh raised his voice so all could hear. ‘Piers of Wem.’

  Piers fell to his knees.

  ‘For your loyalty and your service to me at no small risk to yourself, I give you this token of my gratitude.’

  I opened my eyes. He was handing Piers a small leather purse.

  Piers gasped, muttered a few words of thanks and kissed his lord’s hand.

  ‘Roger, son of Peter of this manor.’

  Roger too fell to his knees and was awarded a similar purse.

  ‘I thank you both.’

  They murmured something and kissed his hand again.

  Which left me and Margery. I wasn’t comforted. What was commendable and proper behaviour for a man was not necessarily so for a woman. Either of us could still go to gaol. Or undergo a beating. Margery belonged to Sir Hugh but I could be marched to the borders of his lands and evicted.

  ‘Margery of this manor.’

  Margery knelt massively.

  ‘You have served me well. Master Walter tells me you are unmarried. Take this for your dowry. With my thanks.’

  He passed her a small purse. Smaller than Roger’s and Piers’, I noticed.

  She kissed his hand and managed to say, ‘God save my lord.’

  That left me.

  ‘Joan of Rouen, step forward.’

  I stared for a moment and then thought, shit, that’s me.

  I knelt and not very gracefully, either.

  ‘Master William tells me yours is a sad tale.’

  ‘Sir, I have endured much misfortune and I must thank you for the sanctuary you have offered me. If I have offended your hospitality by my actions then I sincerely beg your pardon.’

  He looked down at me. ‘You are an educated woman?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, horrified at this accusation of unwomanliness, ‘but I helped my father at his work.’

  ‘His trade?’

  ‘A scribe, sire,’ I said, hacking yet another path through the Land of Make Believe. ‘When his sight failed, I read to him and wrote his replies.’

  He nodded. ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Leon of Rouen sir. Recently dead.’

  ‘I am pleased to offer you a home here, Joan of Rouen. And a woman should not be without a husband. I offer you a dowry in gratitude for your part in … recent events.’

  I was nearly overcome. Not only was he not going to hang me but I was being rewarded. I would have money. I could buy a comb. And a warm cloak for the coming winter. And I would have a home. I would be safe.

  I did as the others had done and kissed his hand, words being beyond me.

  He stepped close to the four of us and said in a low voice. ‘Never do that again.’

  We all fervently promised never to set fire to St Mary’s again. Piers and Roger scuttled back into the crowd, who cheered and applauded. Margery lumbered to her feet, clutching her purse and grinning fit to burst. I noticed several men sidle up to her as she rejoined Little Alice. I suspected they had suddenly discovered she was a fine figure of a woman. With the gratitude of her lord. And a dowry.

  This seemed to signal the end of the proceedings. Hugh moved off and was joined by Walter. People milled around. I stayed on my knees tightly clutching my little purse as if I feared it would be taken from me.

  A voice murmured, ‘At last – you seem bereft of words. I can scarce believe it,’ and William walked past me to join his master.

  As soon as I could, I took myself off to a quiet corner to examine my purse. I tipped the coins into the palm of my hand and turned them over curiously. Some were so worn I couldn’t make out their denomination. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that my short-sightedness was going to cause me some problems, sooner or later. For instance, I was never going to be able to thread a needle. You don’t have a needle to thread, said my common sense. So stop worrying.

  I strained my eyes and brain to work out their value. A labourer would earn around 3d a day. One shilling and sixpence a week – no one worked on a Sunday. Well, they did – they worked their own land on a Sunday. So that brought in five or six shillings a month. Working around three hundred days a year – and paid less in winter because of the shorter days – he’d come home with about three pounds a year. A
woman would get around half of that.

  As far as I could see, thirty minutes of arson had earned me four farthings, four ha’pennies, four pennies and a tarnished and clipped silver shilling. I think I had about one and sixpence. Two weeks’ wages. Good for Hugh. Although I suspected the tarnished and clipped silver coin came from Walter and would turn out to be worth considerably less than face value. Never mind. I had no intention of buying myself a husband, although chance would be a fine thing. Whereas the acquisition of a dowry had rendered Margery considerably more attractive to the opposite sex – she had quite a small crowd around her now – it was obviously going to take more than a few dubious coins to convince a man I was worth taking on.

  Never mind. You could get a gallon of not very good wine for around 3d, so a few pennies should be more than enough to buy me a knife to eat with, a comb for my hair, some linen to cover my head, a second-hand dress from somewhere, and if I was really lucky, a good thick cloak for the winter. Things were looking up. I would walk to Rushford market to try my luck.

  A thought struck me. I would need permission to leave the village. Well I wasn’t going to ask Walter. I would approach William.

  All this sounds very exciting. And funny. And some parts of it were and I’ve told you about them. What I haven’t mentioned are the long dark nights when I lay alone on my stone floor weeping quietly into my stole. Trying to push away soul-crushing thoughts of fear and loss and loneliness and failing utterly. Seeing Leon’s blue eyes every time I closed my own. Feeling his arms around me. Listening to his breathing as he slept beside me at night. Feel the touch of his hands. And Matthew, with his shock of dark hair we couldn’t persuade him to have cut. The way he slid his hand into mine when he wanted comfort but wouldn’t admit it. I heard his oddly deep voice.