by Alis Hawkins
Hob looks around at me. ‘You’re spared, Martin,’ he calls.
‘How’s that?’
‘Since you’ve no fear of the pestilence, I was going to send you to the court. But if we’re standing in the open, we can both go.’ He grins. ‘Bring the letters,’ he says, as he turns and sets off again.
I make no move to follow him. Who does he think he is to give me orders as if he was my father or my master?
The woman speaks up. ‘If you’re going to the court, you’d better leave your cart here. Piers Alleyne’ll find a way to have it, otherwise. And your mare too.’
Though I am too far away to see the colour of her eyes, I can tell that they are fastened on me.
‘You can bring her into the barn. The cart as well, so it’s out of the way.’
She is the first person, since I left Lysington, who has spoken to me as if I were an ordinary man about ordinary business. She does not want to know whether I am sick, or where I have come from or where I am going or anything else that reminds me of the chancy times we live in.
I make my mind up in a heartbeat. ‘Hob!’ I shout after him. ‘I’m going to leave the mare and cart in the barn, here. I’ll catch you up.’
A hand goes up to signal that he has heard but he does not look around. It does not occur to him that I might do anything but trot after him as he bids. He will do the talking, of course, when we find this Piers Alleyne, and the man will understand — as he is meant to — that Hob is the one who has moved everything in his path to be here, to deliver the letter.
I stand, watching him match his pace to that of the hobbling old man, his golden cloak billowing behind him as the wind catches it, and I am filled with the need to thwart him.
There is no room to turn, so I back the mare up, ignoring her jerking head and bared teeth, then lead her towards the track at the side of the toft.
‘Some people do love to give orders,’ Christiana muses, her eyes on the two men walking away from us. Then she turns and gives me a dimpled smile. ‘Doesn’t mean they have to be obeyed, though, does it?’
I pull the mare up and gaze at her, standing there with her child. ‘You’re not going to the court?’ I know this perfectly well. I heard her tell the scolding old man that she has her dead friend to lay out, but I can think of nothing else to say.
‘No.’ She meets my eye. ‘I have better things to do.’
A notion comes into my head with the look she gives me. Or to be truthful, it comes into my cock. Then I picture her friend, waiting to be laid out, and drop my head in shame.
‘Will you?’ she asks.
I am befuddled by my own sudden lust. ‘Will I what?’
‘Go to the court? Run after your friend, Hob, with the letter he’s so keen to deliver.’ She looks at me, that smile dimpling again. ‘Or might you have better things to do, as well?’
Suddenly, Hob is the one dancing to the soldier’s tune and I am the one cocking a snook at lordship. Sir John is dead, what good will it do to deliver his letter now?
I return her bold gaze. ‘I’ll have to see what else there might be to do.’ Is it my voice saying these words?
A roaring sets up in my ears and there is a numb feeling about my lips as I cluck the mare on again. My cock has grown so upright that it’s lifting my tunic and I’m glad the mare is between me and Christiana.
She watches me walk towards her, then turns on her heel and disappears into the house. Before dismay can unman me, she is back, holding a crust of bread which the child on her hip is avid to have, reaching for it and making little whimpers of wanting.
His cries answer my case exactly, though it is not my empty stomach crying out for satisfaction.
Once unbarred, the barn doors swing wide open and, with the smell of hay in her nostrils, the mare needs no encouragement to enter.
Christiana puts the child down in a patch of sun before the open shutter and gives him his bread. While he works at the crust with his tooth-pegged gums, she pulls an armful of hay from a tidy stack against one wall and dumps it in the corner furthest away from him.
‘Tie the mare here.’
I do as I am bid, though my fingers are so unhandy with confusion that I can hardly fasten the knot. She stands beside me and pushes my hands away so that she can tie the rope.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks as if we were doing no more than stabling a horse.
I am struck with remorse. I have entirely mistaken her purpose. How did I dare think so lowly of her — or so highly of myself?
‘Martin,’ I tell her, feeling the heat of shame rise in my face at the thoughts I have been having, feeling my cock shrink in mortification. ‘They call me Martin.’
She drops the end of the rope and turns towards me, a half-smile on her face. ‘Well, Martin, you’ve caught my fancy.’ She tilts her chin up at me and her mouth quirks as if she is holding back a laugh. ‘Have I caught yours?’
I seem to have grown another heart in my braies; it swells and thunders along with the one in my chest.
‘Yes.’ It is better than a croak, but not much.
She stands in front of me, bold and smiling, and comes slowly forward, backing me against the wall of the barn, freeing her bright, auburn hair from her coif as she comes.
The world has shrunk to this dusty corner, I can think of nothing but the teasing smile in front of me and the hot, insistent beating in my cock.
She raises her face and puts a hand behind my neck, pulling my mouth down to hers. Her lips part as they meet mine and I taste her tongue. A sudden, sharp-edged burst of heat shoots down through my belly and into the very tip of my cock and it is all I can do to keep my mouth on hers and meet tongue with tongue. She reaches down and lifts my hand from her waist to her breast. I feel its soft givingness through the wool of her kirtle and stroke it gently, feeling the nipple rise against my fingertips beneath the fabric of kirtle and shift.
She pulls away slightly and I drop my hand but she looks into my face and smiles her crooked smile. ‘No, don’t stop.’
I begin stroking again and she tilts her head back, her eyes half-closed, her hair tumbling down her back, curling and winding itself up into ringlets.
‘For a beginner, you show promise.’
I do not bother asking how she knows. Women have ways of knowing things.
‘Now, let’s see what you’ve got for me.’
She catches the hem of my tunic with one hand and pulls it up; with the other, she finds the drawstring of my braies and pulls it loose. My cock free, she puts her fingers around it.
A sound gasps out of me and she laughs, softly, in her throat. ‘Good?’
I swallow, nod, keep my eyes closed. I doubt my ability to remain standing, my knees are shaking so much.
Still holding my cock with one hand, she uses the other to pull her kirtle up. This done, she moves closer.
‘Lift me up.’
I put my arms around her and lift her off the ground. She has contrived to keep her kirtle out of the way and I feel my cock pushing between her legs.
‘Not quite,’ she says. ‘He has no aim. Lift me a little more.’
I obey and she pushes her hips up, towards me. When she lowers them again, I feel my cock sliding into a hot, close embrace.
‘Mother of God!’
I feel her shake. She is laughing, quietly. After a moment or two she asks, ‘Better than going to Piers Alleyne’s stupid court?’
The court. Dimly, I am aware that Hob is there, waiting for me, waiting for the letter. It seems none of my concern.
I nod.
Another small quake of laughter. ‘You are allowed to move, Martin.’
I open my eyes and look into hers. I manage three thrusts before a groan is torn from me.
She pulls me close while I shudder.
‘Dear God.’ My voice sounds foreign in my ears.
I open my eyes again to find her smiling at me. ‘Now that has happened,’ she says, ‘you can do something for me, and the
n we will try again.’ She lifts herself off my rapidly-softening cock and takes my hand. ‘Your wife will thank me for this,’ she says, ‘when you have one.’
Later, our clothing restored to its proper state, she looks at me, a self-satisfied smile on her face.
‘Why?’ I ask, my legs still trembling slightly.
She shrugs. ‘Because I fancied you. Because my friend Amice, who was well two days ago, lies dead today.’ She looks at me, steadily. ‘Because we may all be dead tomorrow and I’m sick of waiting for it.’ She brushes her hands down the front of her kirtle as if putting an end to the memory of what we had done together. ‘Besides, they say there’s no marriage in heaven and, if there’s no fucking there either, then we’d better enjoy it while we can.’
What she calls fucking, the church calls fornication. A sin. But, as soon as it enters my head, the thought seems unimportant. Doubtless, priests would tut and impose penance but, in truth, who is hurt by what we have done together? Nobody’s rights have been taken, nobody’s wife coveted. And it was so pleasurable.
She crosses to her child who, bread consumed, is now bored with his own toes and has started grizzling. As she moves away from me, I realise how long we have been in the barn.
‘Christiana, I must go to the court.’ I stand on the cartwheel and pull up the canvas to find the linen bag.
‘Got the letter in there, have you?’
I nod.
‘Come on then.’ The child on her hip, she is a mother once more.
As we walk down the street, I ask her who Piers Alleyne is.
‘Son of the old bailiff, Nicholas Alleyne — he’s set to take over from his father but I reckon he fancies himself better than a bailiff. From what I hear, he’s constantly at young Matilda’s side, she can barely take herself to the privy without him hovering.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘And he?’
‘Twenty-five or thereabouts.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, is it? Just because that’s what’s on your mind — and other parts — doesn’t mean that’s what’s on his.’
‘No?’
She casts a sidelong look at me.
‘Is she pretty?’ I ask.
Christiana raises an arch eyebrow. ‘Why are we talking about a girl you’ve never met? What about me? Aren’t I pretty?’
I shake my head, full of new-found confidence. ‘No.’ She punches my arm. ‘You’re beautiful.’
She laughs then. ‘Silly boy.’
But still, she moves closer to me, her shoulder touching my arm as we walk.
‘Does the court always meet under the Saxon oak?’
‘Only in summer, generally. That’ll be Piers Alleyne. Now he thinks he’s bailiff, he won’t want us in the hall. He’ll defend his territory like a dog.’
At the far edge of the village, a stone-built grange comes into sight a hundred yards or so ahead of us.
‘That’s the manor hall,’ Christiana says. ‘The gatehouse is on the other side. The Saxon oak’s there.’
I do not know how to take my leave of her but she solves the problem for me.
‘I’ll see you when you come for the mare and the cart. I’ll give her water when I get back.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If I’m not in the house, look for me next door.’ She gives me her dimpled smile and, swinging her child to her other hip, she walks away.
As I trot in the direction of the Manor Hall, I picture her quick, capable hands laying out her dead neighbour. Hands that —
No. Time to think of other things. First, I need to find Hob.
A jolt runs through me at the thought of Hob guessing what has kept me but I shrug it off. Why should he? To him, I am chaste Martin.
I round the curve of the house’s dry moat and there, ahead of me, is the gathered court. Joining the stragglers at the edge, I feel their angry, hostile mood — the air is thick with scowls and grumbling.
I look about, made uneasy by the stares directed at me. Where is Hob?
Having no wish to elbow my way through a pack of surly strangers, I stand to one side, a few yards behind a small group of older men, and watch for him. His golden cloak will stand out amongst the surrounding, workaday russet and I scan the crowd, waiting for a glimpse of it.
This Piers Alleyne may have convened the manor court at an uncharitable moment but a great number of the surviving population seems to have turned out for it.
A voice is raised, wearily, as if its owner is tired of trying to be heard ‘— and if death dues are delayed unreasonably then there’ll be further charges levied —’
A great hubbub rises up at these words and the speaker is shouted down.
‘What’s reasonable?’
‘Who’s to pay if all the family are dead?’
‘Heirs elsewhere can’t be sent for while the village is plagued!’
The voice — presumably that of the reeve — tries again and I pick its owner out in the crowd. He looks young. Holds his office courtesy of the plague, more than likely.
‘Master Alleyne says that if there are no heirs then the tithing man responsible for the household must choose and deliver the death due from the family’s animals.’
‘And what if he’s dead? In case you haven’t noticed, the plague goes from house to house — all the men in a tithing’ll likely be dead together!’
This objection sparks others.
‘Piers Alleyne doesn’t know what he’s about.’
‘Why are you speaking for him, Tom Legge?’
‘Yes, let him speak to us directly!’
The reeve looks over his shoulder. As if the crowd’s anger has summoned them, a couple appears from the manor hall’s gatehouse: a young woman and a man dressed in what looks — across the distance of fifty yards or so that separate us — like a fur lined cloak and hat.
Carefully, as if he is unaccustomed to the action, the man steps up on to the raised platform that is built against the grange’s outer wall and helps the lady up after him.
This is the signal for the crowd to surge past the reeve and gather around the dais.
Having seen the lady seated on one of the two chairs standing ready there, the cloaked man remains standing, without word or gesture, until the gathering falls silent.
‘With Sir John and my father both dead,’ he says in a clear, confident voice, ‘there is a need to ensure that everything on the manor proceeds as normal.’
There is an outcry against this but Piers Alleyne — for this is surely him — waits it out before speaking again. ‘Now, the reeve informs me —’
‘He’s not our reeve!’ a voice shouts. ‘We never chose him!’
‘Shut up, Will!’ The man I identified as the reeve strides forward. ‘Where were you when a new reeve was wanted?’ he demands. ‘Locked in your house shitting your braies.’ He glares at the crowd. ‘Which one of you went from house to house seeing who was well, who was sick and who was dead?’
Eyes slide away as he looks this way and that.
‘If anybody wants to be reeve instead of me, they can speak up now and stop their whining!’
Muttered words and sidelong glances are exchanged but nobody steps forward.
Piers Alleyne looks out from his dais. ‘Is there anybody who wishes to put himself forward as reeve?’
‘We shouldn’t need to choose a new reeve until all this is over,’ a voice objects.
‘Agreed!’ another calls out. ‘After the plague’s gone — that’s the time for all that.’
The rumble of agreement is growing louder and more mutinous.
‘Silence!’ Piers Alleyne shouts. ‘It’s not for you to decide when and whether this manor needs a reeve! The very fact that this court has had to be called is proof that you can’t be relied on to pay your dues and keep order without being overseen. Tomorrow, Thomas Legge will begin the process of collecting the death-dues payable since the last court.’ He looks around. ‘Make
no mistake, I will see to it that Lady Matilda gets everything she’s owed. Every farthing, every egg, every day’s labour. Moreover,’ he raises his voice over the protests his words have provoked, ‘there are the church’s dues to be considered. Since the parson’s death, I gather that no burial-payments have been made, though burials have gone on apace.’
‘Why should we pay to dig our own graves and bury our own dead?’
Piers Alleyne locates the questioner before answering her. ‘You can bury your own dead for free if you like, as long as you do it on your own land. If you bury them in the churchyard you’ll give the church what it’s due.’
‘But there’s no priest to support!’ a voice complains. ‘The money’s not needed!’
‘It’s needed to find a successor.’ Alleyne’s tone says he’s beginning to lose patience with them. ‘No priest will serve, now, for last year’s stipend — every man knows his worth and priests are no different. I’ll put the burial-payments aside until a new parson can be found.’
‘What about our dead till then? Who’s going to bury them with the proper words? You should be out there finding a new parson.’
During this unwisely long speech, Alleyne seeks out the malcontent and fixes him with a stare.
‘I think you’ll find,’ he says, at last, ‘that it’s not my duty to procure a new parish priest but the bishop’s. It’s not for me to usurp his lordship’s prerogative.’
‘Bishop doesn’t give a wet fart!’
There is some laughter at this but the mood of the crowd is not to be turned so easily.
‘You could find a parson tomorrow if you cared. You’re just scared to leave Sir John’s house.’
‘Coward!’
Alleyne’s head snaps round in the direction of the insult but the crowd is emboldened by this audacity.
‘Yes, coward!’
‘Co-ward.’ A chant is set up.
‘Co-ward!’ More voices join in.
‘Co-ward! Co-ward! Co-ward!’
I watch the gathering become a mob and feel a shiver of fear. The pestilence might not kill us all, but it is changing us; this open defiance is something I have never seen before. We have been worn thin with worry since news of the pestilence came last year; nearer and nearer the worry has come until it has flayed us to our very bones. Will the Death come to our county, our hundred, our village; will it come to our house, will I die, will there be a world for my children to live in when it has done with us?
