* * *
Gerard Smith made all my deliveries that week, except for the cloth to Austin Friars. I told him not to visit the friars because I wanted to bring them the painted cloth myself. The Friary’s beauty was well-known and, since Tom had dealt with the Prior before, I hoped to see something of this famous place where scholars gathered, often travelling there from far-flung countries, the lands of oranges and figs.
When the monasteries paid us, I paid my debt, pleased to see that there was now enough left over from the sale of the plain fabric to keep my household fed that winter. The rent on Wood Street was due by All Hallows’ Eve and I knew that I must use the rest of Master Cromwell’s silver for this. Simply, there would not be enough over to rebuild my much-needed woolshed unless I sold the remaining mixed cloth I kept in the attic storerooms and replaced it with even better cloth.
‘Smith,’ I said after I had recorded our gains in the ledgers. ‘Where can I buy new draperies? You know, linen or wool and silk mixes.’
He thought for a moment, then beaming broadly said, ‘There is always the Northampton Cloth Fair. Those fancy new cloths are woven up in Norfolk. They will be there aplenty, Mistress. They are in high demand.’
Meg looked up from her black work stitching. Her mouth was open and she shook her head so hard that her cap fell off her wayward curls and dropped into her lap. ‘How can you think of it, Mistress? Master Wykes would not approve, nor your mother.’ She clicked her tongue between her teeth. ‘It is not right for a lady to travel to the cloth fairs.’ Smith smiled at her, nodding his head. I had long suspected that he was sweet on her.
I stood up and spread my fingers on my desk. ‘Meg, they would have me back in Putney. Think on this. Where will my household be? I would have to close down my business and send you all away. So you see, I must go - and you will accompany me, as will Smith.’
That did it. She looked contrite, nodded, and picked up her needle again, concentrating small black cross stitches along the hem of the table napkin she was embroidering.
Smith watched her for a moment with admiring eyes, then said, ‘We shall have the money from the Friary to reinvest. They always purchase the most cloth from us. And there is the painted cloth they ordered too. That will fetch a good price.’ He rubbed his hands and grinned at me. I found myself smiling back.
October slid in quickly with tossing leaves, cooler air and crisp evenings. I arranged to deliver the painted cloth to the Friary along with bolts of broadcloth for new habits. On that day, l called my apprentices to help me. We packed the starry fabric into our wagon, along with bolts of plain brown woollen cloth. With Gerard Smith at the reins of our wagon, one apprentice boy and Meg, I set out to visit the Austin Friars.
Early morning dew coated the gateposts of the Guildhall, lacing the hedges with watery droplets, and water carriers and milkmaids shouted out their presence as we passed them. When a group of horsemen clip-clopped past us, Smith tugged the nag’s reins, drawing the wagon to the side of the street. At that moment, a maid about to empty a bucket into the channel that ran like a hollowed-out bone of stone through the street’s centre, called a warning from a casement set into the overhang above. We leaned away from the mess, almost upsetting our wagon.
‘Be careful,’ I snapped at Smith. ‘Think of the cloth.’
He turned to me. ‘Mistress, if you want to drive, take the reins. Happy I am to let you.’
Meg jerked her neck round, sharp as sticking pins. ‘Gerard, you mind your tongue.’
I looked straight ahead, my eyes fixed on the street, but never spoke. For the moment, I was furious.
Pigs sauntered along the cobbles, snuffling through the discarded waste. A chattering queue formed outside a bake-house. The soothing smell of newly baked loaves escaped through its opened doors, but no sooner had Smith urged our nag on towards Throgmorton Street, than I was wrinkling my nose again. A band of night soil boys marched by, shovels hoisted over their shoulders, buckets over their arms. Meg unclipped a lavender ball from her kirtle belt, passed it to me and I held it to my nose, longing for the fresher air of the Friary.
We entered the Austin Friary from the gates at the junction of Throgmorton Street and Broad Street.
‘Meg, straighten your cap. You need to look neat here,’ I said, removing the pomander from my nose and handing it back to her, determined that we would make a good impression on the friars.
I cast a sideways look at Gerard Smith who looked sullen. ‘You, Gerard, mind the wagon and water the horse.’
He mumbled something, clearly not pleased that I had deprived him of the honour of his annual delivery. No doubt, in the past he had been the recipient of a good dinner in the friary kitchens and he could take his leisure. This time I was in charge, which would explain the abrupt manner in which he had loaded the wagon and driven us here. He was still not used to a woman giving him orders despite his willingness to help me recover the business.
Without replying, he sent the boy, Barnaby, a bright tow-haired lad, to fetch help to unload our cloth. A short time passed. We waited in silence. Even Meg was annoyed with me because I had told her to neaten herself up, I who could never keep my own cupboards tidy. Yet, to the world I appeared ordered. Her face was long and her lips pursed. I looked away and studied the buildings, deciding to ignore her petulance. The Friary was as magnificent as I had expected, with its handsome church and the well-kept gardens which could be glimpsed once we were inside the Friary’s walls.
Friars, their habits flapping, came rushing across the courtyard to help us unload the wagon. Moments later they had hoisted our cloth over their shoulders. One, whom I assumed must be more senior than the others, stepped over to speak with me.
‘Mistress Williams, our Prior wishes to converse with you today. He is in the North Cloister.’ He turned to Smith. ‘Welcome, Master Gerard, Friar Francis here will show you to the kitchen for refreshment as usual. You too, Mistress,’ he said to Meg. ‘The stable boys will water your horse. Bring the boy with you.’
At last, Smith smiled, his eyes twinkling and, turning to me, he spoke gently this time, his mood much improved. ‘Mistress, you are surely honoured and, therefore, we your servants are also.’
I nodded and forgave him his earlier petulance.
‘I have the painted cloth?’ I said to the monk, pointing to the bolt of painted cloth that none of the friars had lifted.
‘Prior Anthony wishes us to carry it straight to him.’
‘I see.’ I wondered if he was going to inform me that he would not do business with a woman cloth merchant.
Filled with anxiety, I followed the friars and the roll of painted cloth around the main cloister to the North Cloister. Students and clergy purposefully bustled by us. Some of them looked foreign, Italian or perhaps Spanish. Their gowns were of fine wool and well-cut to flow about legs encased in colourful, close-fitting hose. Many Italians came to study at Austin Friars. It was renowned for scholarship and possessed a great library, with printed books as well as many very old decorated books painstakingly copied by generations of scriptorium monks.
Prior Anthony was seated on a stone bench. He stood up, putting down the little book he was reading and which he had held with long elegant hands. ‘Ah, Mistress Williams, I wished to express my sorrow at Master Williams’ death directly to you. A fencing accident, I heard.’
I nodded. ‘During sword practice. He was a King’s yeoman - sometimes.’
‘I see. Only sometimes?’
‘He was a reserve.’ I did not want to speak of his accident further so I kept silent.
The Prior looked approvingly at my neat black kirtle, my white coif and the simple black cross on a silver chain that today I wore hanging over my bodice. A breeze caught my cloak and it flapped about me like a rook’s wings as the Friars laid the cloth on the bench. I helped them open it up so Prior Anthony could see and appreciate the gleaming stars and the deep blue heavens that contained them.
He nodded appreciatively
. ‘Very good, Mistress Williams. I see you are intent on carrying on the cloth business.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Or are you just completing orders already promised? I hope you will continue our business.’
‘I intend to continue the business. I have always kept the accounts, Prior Anthony.’
‘That is very brave, and many widows do well carrying on their husbands’ businesses.’
‘I shall do my best to please. I have a competent journeyman and am training up two apprentices.’
Prior Anthony opened the roll a little further. ‘Good,’ he said.
As Thomas Cromwell had done some months past, he fingered the painted cloth. Remembering him, I felt a tug in my breast.
‘I am very pleased with this.’
When he looked up, I noticed his eyes were of the deepest blue, as blue as the cloth he had just purchased for the Friary’s Christmas plays.
‘I shall send you payment later this week, for this and for the broadcloth.’ He looked anxiously at me. ‘But I don’t like to think of you crossing to Wood Street with a bag of coin. I shall send it tomorrow with Friar Thomas.’ He added, ‘Accompanied by a guard.’ He smiled. His was a kind generous smile and I liked him immediately. ‘We cannot always trust to God’s protection. The streets are dangerous.’
‘Thank you, Prior Anthony.’
He raised an eyebrow as he saw me glance towards the book he had left lying on the bench. I possessed few books because, as I had suspected, my reading was not encouraged in the Williams household.
‘You are interested in texts, Mistress Williams,’ the Prior said. He lifted up the little book. I peered closely at it trying to decipher the words on its cover.
‘This printed book is by Desiderius Erasmus of Antwerp. Have you heard of this scholar?’
‘I had a Latin master as a girl. He said Master Erasmus wanted readers to think of the meaning of things.’
He looked at me with earnest eyes. ‘This is true. You are indeed educated. Once, Erasmus said, “When I get a little money I buy books; and if there is any left I buy food and clothes.”’
‘But if he is hungry he cannot concentrate,’ I remarked, feeling my forehead crease as I thought about what I was saying. ‘I mean if I were truly hungry, I could not think of books.’
‘He has a hunger for the written word. We have many books in our library. This little book is a collection of Latin proverbs.’ He placed the book in my hands. ‘Take it.’
I handled it carefully as if it was a brittle leaf that could break if I breathed on it, and turned the page over. Glancing up at his earnest face, I said, ‘It is wonderful, a printed book, just as the painted cloth is printed with tiny gleaming stars.’
‘Indeed, my child, and as Erasmus says, “Give light and the darkness will disappear of itself.” So, since you have brought me stars to light our Christmas plays, I would give you this book, Mistress Williams. Learn to question the world and find your own sense of light.’ I felt that he had given me advice of great value and whispered my thanks. The Madonna had answered my prayer. She had sent me a good omen. I would thrive.
The Nonce bells suddenly began to ring, sending a beautiful sound around the cloister. It was joined by the bells of a hundred London churches and more.
‘I must attend to the noonday service,’ Prior Anthony said above the ringing bells, looking towards small groups of friars walking in the direction of the church. When he noticed a lone friar walking alone along the cloister pathway close to us, he called him over. ‘Deliver Mistress Williams to her maid.’ Turning to me he inclined his head and said, his voice slightly raised above the bells, ‘Return one day, Mistress Elizabeth. Next time I shall show you our library.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, clutching the little book. ‘Thank you for my book.’
As quickly as the bells rang, they stopped. I followed the friar and, in a strange way, as I held that little book to my breast, I felt as free as a bird of the air. It was unusual for a man, even a Prior, to care about a woman’s education.
The following day I summoned Smith and the apprentices into the office behind my stores which looked out over the garden.
‘The two of you,’ I looked at my apprentices, ‘and Master Smith here will be accompanying me to Cheape Street on St Luke’s Day. We’ll sell the rest of the cloth there, or as much of it as we can.’ I had to suppress a smile as I struggled to be very firm. ‘Gerard, you will organise a stall for me.’ I lifted a sample of green woollen fabric from the top of my ledger. ‘It’s fine cloth. I intend to get as good a price for it as is possible. Before Christmastide, I shall buy new fabrics to replace the cloth we sell.’ If I cleared most of this cloth on St Luke’s Day we would travel to the Northampton November Fair.
Smith scratched his head through thinning yellow hair. ‘If you insist, Mistress, but I think it dangerous for a …’
I set my mouth as if it were carved of stone.
‘Woman? That’s what you mean to say, is it not?’ I said. ‘I know what I am about, so don’t say it. You, yourself, said there would be new draperies at the Northampton Fair and to purchase them I shall need as much coin as we can gather up. Arrange a stall with the Drapers’ Company. Make sure we have a cover and a good position.’ My lanky apprentice boys looked amused. One began to giggle behind his fist. I glared at them. ‘Between now and then, you boys will clean these storerooms. Make sure the cloth is parcelled with fennel and lavender to keep vermin off, and the bolts wrapped in linen. You have two days. If it is not done well, you will repeat the process until I am satisfied.’
‘Yes Mistress,’ they chorused with downcast eyes. Their faces reddened as they sloped off to do my bidding. Smith nodded, which I took to be assent, if not quite meant.
St Luke’s Day dawned sunny with a nip in the air. I noted the cloudless sky, thankful that rain would not wet my fabrics.
We sold a little in the morning. Smith watched me closely as I negotiated with a Flanders middleman on a half-dozen bolts of kersies. For the first time since my husband died, I saw Smith throw a smile of admiration my way. By eleven o’clock a great number of bodies pushed through the stalls, women with servants and maids, flocks of dark-clothed priests, cloth men from all over Northern Europe, Flanders merchants, a few olive-skinned, richly dressed Italians, a band of nobility who looked too proud to buy anything. Nonetheless, they fingered the goods on display, turned to servants and, with a click of their fingers, ordered them to buy fine cloth from stalls close to mine. Other traders were not so kind.
A group of them close to my pitch watched me with critical eyes. As I sold cloth to a lady with a page, a young woman who looked as if she could be a maid at court, just the customer I needed to spread word of my new fabrics, I saw that the master traders looked at us as if we were small insects not worth their regard, whispering with raised eyebrows. From time to time, as they glanced my way heads came together as if in debate and I their subject. I squared my shoulders and turned my back on them.
One sidled forward. I spun around crossly at his tap on my shoulder. He was the same merchant who had sat beside me months ago at Tom’s funeral feast. I was about to greet him pleasantly, determined not to be belittled by him, but before I could speak, he pinched one of my draperies between finger and thumb, a fine linen and soft silk mix, lifted it, dropped it and remarked, ‘Insubstantial, Mistress Williams, as thin of character as those who would chose to wear such poor fabric.’ He seemed to ponder for a moment, stumpy finger against chin, almost but not quite mockingly. ‘Your father has sense. Listen to him. He trades in good worsteds and sensible wool.’ He looked from me to Smith and shook his grey head at him in a critical manner.
‘No money in that fabric, Gerard, no worth.’
By association with me, whom they clearly saw an insubstantial woman, my journeyman was demeaned as well.
Smith muttered, ‘We shall see, we shall see. She’ll find out soon enough.’ In that moment, I was angry both with Smith and at the trader. I coolly stu
died my journeyman.
‘And so shall you, Smith.’
He had the grace to redden and say, ‘I meant no ill, Mistress.’
‘Show me loyalty,’ I snapped once the trader had moved off.
Later, two senior guildsmen with long grey beards and walking sticks wandered through the market, examining the quality of the merchandise.
They lingered by my stall, looked over my cloth carefully, nodded and one said, ‘A valiant effort, Mistress Williams.’ I felt crosser than ever.
The other said, ‘It is good to see you recovering from the fire. No word of the rogue who set it?’
‘Which rogue, sir?’ I said, trying to remain calm.
‘The boy who guarded the store?’ The guildsman snorted and looked at his companion, who frowned and shook his head as if to silence his friend.
My apprentices looked concerned. Smith raised a bushy eyebrow and was about to speak, but I spoke up, determined to stop whatever he might say.
‘No, we have not heard of Toby’s whereabouts, nor have we knowledge of who was responsible. Toby was not to blame. Why would he destroy his livelihood?’
‘Perhaps he missed the master. Maybe it was grief.’
‘Or jealousy?’ the other said in a sly tone.
‘If you hear anything, please inform me,’ I said sharply and added, ‘If that is all, I must continue selling my cloth. Excuse me, please, sirs.’
The guildsmen could find no real complaint with the quality I was selling, but they despised me. I was sure of it. When, or if, Toby returned I was sure that they would determine that he was guilty and my heart sank. I still suspected that he was innocent. The guildsmen bowed to me and moved away. Upset by their remarks, I busied myself with my cloth.
A band of children rushed through the stalls, grasping apple pies that oozed fruit over their hands, their sticky fingers moving dangerously near my carefully displayed fabric. I stood firmly in front of my cloth, glad of the apprentice, Wilfrid, who was wiry and cross-eyed. He lifted his hand to the boys and they skittered into the gathering crowd. We had, by now, opened all the linen covers so that the colours were displayed: dark blues, light blues, saffron yellows, browns and serge-green, less expensive fabric in good plain colours, easily dyed and popular with tradesmen’s wives. As the cloth sold, I felt my spirits lifting. Smith persuaded passers-by to come and feel the quality, always taking care to give a detailed account of each ell of fabric - where it had come from, how fast the dye and how fine the weave.
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 6
