The Black and the White

by Alis Hawkins

  Hob holds his hand out to me. ‘Your knife.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m not using mine to prise the shoes off.’

  ‘Martin?’ Watkyn looks up at me.

  ‘No, we’re not going yet.’

  ‘Shall I get back under the canvas then?’

  I lift the canvas for him and watch him lie down on the pallet. When I drop the canvas and turn around, Hob is still holding his hand out.

  ‘Knife?’

  I slap it into his hand and leave him to do what he wants.

  When I rejoin the drinkers, a man is on his knees in front of the saint, while two more stand behind him. Only now do I see what a risk I took in leaving her here. As I move to her side, Hob comes back in.

  ‘Look, boys!’ Scaff calls above the hubbub. ‘We’ve got relics in our midst! Let’s see ’em then.’

  Hob looks as if he’ll deny the request and Scaff laughs nastily. ‘Or do we have to pay to look?’

  ‘A cat may look at a king,’ Hob says. ‘Come and look all you like.’

  Slowly, as if weighed down by his own flesh, Scaff rises from his place and comes towards us. His face is flushed and beaded with sweat from the heat of the fire and the ale he’s consumed.

  He takes the horseshoes from Hob, one at a time, and examines each of them. ‘They don’t look very miraculous.’

  ‘I’m not saying they are. All I’m saying is that the mare was wearing four shoes when we went into the ford, and only three when we came out.’ He lifts the staff off the ground. ‘This is just the one that the saint caused to be thrown so that we’d make our way to the smith at Tredgham.’

  ‘How much?’ one of the men asks. And then half the drinkers are speaking at once.

  ‘I’ll play you at dice for them.’

  ‘Three shillings —’

  ‘How do we know they’ll work against the pestilence?’

  Hob chooses to answer this last one above all the others. ‘You don’t. But I can tell you that not having them will give you no protection whatsoever!’

  ‘Three shillings.’ It’s the same voice as before.

  Hob turns to him. ‘I turned down ten yesterday. Why would I sell for three today?’

  ‘Because nobody’s offering ten.’

  Chuckles and grins are stifled as Hob shrugs. ‘It’s not me that wants to sell — it’s you that wants to buy.’

  A strange sort of haggling follows, as Hob’s stubborn insistence that he is not minded to sell drives the would-be buyers to offer larger and larger sums. Only when the offer stands at twelve shillings a shoe does he finally shake three hands and send their owners off to bring him his money.

  ‘Can’t you wait till tomorrow?’ one grumbles. ‘My wife’ll have me by the balls for waking the household up.’

  ‘If you can’t master your wife, I can’t help you.’ Hob grins. ‘But I want my money now. Martin and I’ll be up and gone early — I’m not waiting for you to get your sore heads over here — I could be here half the day, especially if your wife’s yet to give you back leave of your own balls.’

  With the last of them gone in search of their savings, Scaff bolts the door and leans his weight back against it. Then, to my astonishment, he begins to clap his hands, slowly, mockingly, head nodding and greasy chins wobbling as he gazes at Hob.

  ‘By God it does me good to see a craftsman at his work,’ he says. ‘You could sell bones to a butcher, lad!’

  Hob raises one eyebrow. ‘I’ve sold them nothing they weren’t pissing themselves to buy.’

  ‘And that’s the trick, isn’t it? Make ’em wild for what you’ve got. Make ’em think it’s worth their last farthing and their youngest child’s life.’

  Hob folds his arms. ‘You don’t think protection against the pestilence is worth twelve shillings?’

  Scaff moves away from the door towards his ale. ‘If it was a proven protection, that’d be a different thing. That twelve shillings’d be the best money those fools ever spent. But if you’re telling me those shoes are proof against the pestilence, then you’re a liar.’

  Hob does not move. Not a muscle-twitch shows the slightest concern at what Scaff has said. ‘You heard every word I spoke,’ he says. ‘You know full well I never said a word about anything being proven.’

  The landlord takes a pull at his ale mug and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘No,’ he concedes, ‘they talked themselves into that.’ His eyes remain on Hob. ‘But what they didn’t talk themselves into was thinking that the shoes they’re buying were the ones the mare was wearing when she threw that one.’ The hand not wrapped around his beer mug points a finger.

  Hob is not to be stared down. ‘I never said they were.’

  ‘No. I listened to you not saying it. You said that the mare was wearing four shoes when she went into the ford, and only three when she came out. Then you shook that bloody staff of yours and said that was the one that just happened to be thrown.’ A half-smile takes his face over; it makes him look even fatter. A drip of sweat falls from his lowest chin to his shirt.

  ‘I got a good look at those three horseshoes and I know they’re from a different set than that one.’ He nods towards Hob’s staff.

  The hairs on the nape of my neck rise and I look over my shoulder, convinced that somebody is sneaking up behind me.

  When Hob says nothing, Scaff begins again. ‘Want to know how I know? Easy. The tool that punched the nail holes wasn’t the same. These ones are squarer — the holes in that one’re longer and narrower.’

  Hob’s gaze has not wavered. My mouth is dry.

  ‘My father was a blacksmith,’ Scaff goes on, ‘so I know.’

  ‘So why aren’t you a blacksmith?’ Hob wants to know. ‘Why are you serving thin ale and cheating your friends out of their money at dice?’

  ‘I don’t cheat, lad.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You’re just more canny than them about what you bet on —’

  There is a sudden shaking of the shutters, as if somebody has thrown a handful of pebbles; the wind has finally brought the rain and is driving it on, over the houses and streets of Snodland to the river. I shiver and am glad that Watkyn is beneath the canvas.

  Scaff leans his elbows on the table. ‘I can’t help it if the men who come here to play dice are fools.’

  Hob moves towards the table where Scaff is sitting. ‘So, what do you want?’

  Before he can answer, his wife comes in and stands over him. ‘All the pot-guzzlers gone home then?’ Her face is flushed and her arms bare from hot work in the kitchen. She is the opposite in build of her husband, small and slight.

  ‘Shut up and leave us, woman. There’s men’s business to do here.’

  She remains uncowed. ‘You mean dice?’ Her hands go to her hips. ‘Isn’t it enough that those dice have lost you one business already? Do you think I’m going to let you ruin me as well?’

  Without rising from his seat he turns with surprising speed and catches her across the face with the back of his hand. ‘I said shut up and go.’

  Quick as a flash, she leans past him and snatches up his ale-mug. Before he can see what she intends, he is being hit about the head, the hollowness of the mug ringing where the wood of it strikes his skull.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do, Scaff, or I shall make you regret the day you married me. I shall cut off your balls while you’re snoring and put them in the pottage. I shall tie you like a hog and roll you to the fire and leave you there to render your fat down!’

  I stand, watching her belabour him until he gets to his feet and grabs the hand that is wielding the mug. ‘Shut up woman!’ He rips the mug from her grasp and flings her to the floor. Her head cracks a bench as she falls and she lets out a shriek.

  Before I can move to help her, there comes a hammering on the door.

  ‘Scaff! Unbolt the door, damn you — it’s pissing down out here!’

  Scaff, ignoring his wife who is rocking backwards and forwards, one
hand to her head, rises and crosses the room to the door. He throws it open and grabs the man standing in the rain, pulling him in bodily.

  The returner shakes himself like a dog and holds up a money-bag to Hob. ‘Twelve shillings to the very farthing.’

  Behind me, Hob speaks as I cross to Scaff’s wife. ‘Count it out on to the table so I can see it’s all there.’

  ‘Do it yourself!’

  Hob’s tone does not change. ‘I want you to do it. It’s your money. You account for it.’

  I ignore the man’s grumbling and bend down. ‘Mistress — can you stand up?’

  She struggles to her feet. ‘Oh, I shall have him one day,’ she growls. ‘I shall cut his lights out and feed them to the butcher’s dog, I swear I shall.’

  Despite this threat, I can see that she is unsteady, so I put an arm around her to guide her back to the door through which she entered.

  ‘Get your hands off her before I break your neck!’

  Scaff has turned his attention from the money-counting to me and his wife.

  ‘She can’t stand,’ I tell him, still heading for the door.

  ‘Then let her bloody crawl!’ he rises to his feet and kicks the bench away behind him. ‘I mean it,’ he roars, ‘let her go!’

  I stop. I can feel the woman at my side gathering her strength. A hand pats my chest. ‘Let me go, son. I can manage.’

  I step away and watch as she makes her way to the door which leads to the brewery and, beyond that, the kitchen. When she is gone, unwilling to remain in the same room as Scaff, I make for the door to the yard.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re bloody going?’

  ‘To see that my horse is well stabled,’ I speak at the door rather than turn to face him, ‘if that’s all the same to you?’

  Scaff says no more and I open the door.

  As it turns out, I cannot see the mare for the stables are fastened with a lock and chain so I make my way to the kitchen and rattle the door to be let in. I see an eye put to the finger-hole and drawn back again before the door is opened by a half-grown boy.

  Shaking the rain from my tunic, I look for Scaff’s wife and see her sitting on a bench in the corner furthest from the door. She seems uninterested in my sudden arrival so I turn to the boy who let me in. ‘I wanted to see my mare was all right but the stable’s locked up. Does he always do that?’

  The boy nods but it is Mistress Scaff who answers. ‘Got fined for letting a felon escape by night last year. What he did wasn’t our fault but Scaff’s not about to let that happen again.’

  That explains the expensive lock and chain. Scaff is counting on it to keep him from having to pay out any more fines.

  I want to ask about the felony but the smell of meat is making me hungry again. ‘Is there any of that stew left?’

  Her head back in her hands, his mistress tells the boy to give me a bowlful. ‘And some bread, Halkin,’ she says, ‘if there’s any left.’

  As I eat, Halkin goes about his pot-scouring and fire-damping and sets the flour and provings to stand for tomorrow’s bread. His mistress, meanwhile, mutters threats against her husband. The boy takes no notice of her grumbling so I assume this is something he is accustomed to. Still, my being in the kitchen will only make more trouble for Mistress Scaff if her husband finds me there. My stew finished, I stand.

  ‘I’ll go back in through the other door,’ I say. She nods but does not look up. I tell Halkin we will need some embers for our basket in the morning, incline my head in thanks to him for the stew and leave.

  I am about to pull the back door open when Hob emerges from it and grabs me by the shoulder. ‘No. Don’t go back in yet. I need to talk to you.’

  He pulls me over to the stable, where the thatch overhangs the door, partly sheltering it from the rain.

  ‘So?’ I ask.

  Hob grinds his teeth. ‘Bastard watched each man pay me and go away with a horseshoe,’ he says, ‘and when the last one’s gone, he says —’ At this, he breaks off to hit the stable door with the heel of his palm.

  ‘Says what?’

  He glares at me. ‘That unless I give him the staff, he’ll tell them that their relics are fake. And then he’ll go to the constable.’

  ‘So?’ I say again.

  ‘So I told him I’ll give it him in the morning.’

  I stare at the pale oval of his face in the dark. ‘And will you?’

  ‘Not a chance! We’re leaving. Now.’

  I shake my head. ‘Haven’t you seen this?’ I lift the chain that fastens the door and drop it, clinking against the sturdy planks.

  ‘Shit!’ He sucks in a deep breath. ‘I could go on alone — meet you somewhere on the other side of the river.’

  ‘And you’d take the money, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, yes! That’d be the point. If you keep it he’ll just have it off you, won’t he? In fact, I should probably take our other money as well, so that when he searches the cart there’s nothing for him to find.’ I feel his eyes on me but cannot see his expression in the dark. ‘Where shall we meet?’

  I blink. Surely he’s not serious? ‘Nowhere. I’m not having you go off with every penny we’ve got.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  I take a breath. ‘What if I go and you stay to play the innocent with Scaff?’

  I see his head move in the dark. ‘No. That won’t work. You know the mare won’t go anywhere for me.’

  ‘Then we both stay.’

  ‘So you don’t trust me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter whether I trust you or not — anything could happen once we’re separated. You might get robbed. You might fall sick with the pestilence. You might get lost! It’s better if we stay together. Simpler.’

  I wait for him to argue, to try and persuade me, but he says nothing.

  ‘Is he going to let us keep the money you got for the horseshoes?’

  Hob grinds his teeth again. ‘Says he wants half.’

  ‘Could be worse. He could have taken all of it.’

  ‘Yes, and I could just break his bloody neck!’

  He kicks the door-jamb.

  ‘We’re still left with eighteen shillings,’ I say.

  ‘Eighteen shillings?’

  ‘Yes. Three lots of twelve makes thirty-six shillings, don’t they? If Scaff’s taking half, that’s eighteen shillings for him and eighteen for us.’

  ‘Right.’

  And, in his uncertain saying of that one word, I know why Hob stalked off in the churchyard at Sibbertswell, why he told the first man to come in with the purse tonight to count the money out for him. He cannot count high enough to reckon such large sums.

  Hob’s stepfather truly must have been a landless pauper, nobody who farms his own acres lacks the ability to reckon. No wonder he has not tried to leave me and make his fortune in any of the towns along the way; he needs me to make sure of our money.

  I wake to find myself standing in the darkness with an urgent need to piss. I turn my head this way and that, looking into the grave-deep blackness for the smallest spark of light.

  I should not have lain down. I told myself that I could just rest, that I need not sleep, but the demon must have lulled me. Here, where there is no protection, he has taken control of me again.

  Again, the need to piss presses on my bladder, up into my standing cock. I look about me, trying to pierce the dark, to find the thin seams of light that run around shutters. If I can find the window, I can place myself in the room.

  As soon as Scaff left us alone, Hob tried those shutters only to find them barred from the outside.

  ‘There’s no getting away from it, Hob,’ I told him, ‘he’s having that staff.’

  Even now, if he is true to his word, Scaff is guarding the door.

  ‘Don’t think you can sneak out in the night,’ he told us as he lifted two thin, straw-filled pallets from a pile in the corner of the room. ‘I shall be lying on the other side of this door with a knife in my hand, waiting
for you.’

  Mean though the lodgings are, I’m loath to piss inside. Not without a piss-pot.

  Which way is the door?

  I crouch down, reach my hands out in front of me, push my fingertips cautiously along the dampness of the floor. Nothing. A quarter turn. Reach out. Still nothing. And again. Nothing. On the final turn, I find what I am looking for. The edge of a pallet. But am I at its side or its end?

  Taking care to touch only with my fingertips, I trace the surface. A short seam. The end, then. Is Hob lying on this pallet or is it the one the demon raised me from? I cannot reach out in case I wake Hob. I cock an ear. No sound of breathing.

  I call to mind the way the room is laid out. A door halfway along one long wall. A window out on to the yard in the shorter wall to the right. The wall on to the street is blind; Scaff does not want people climbing in and out of his lodgings.

  We laid our pallets against the wall with their short ends facing the door, six feet or so between them. I cannot hear Hob’s breathing; this must be mine.

  The need to piss is becoming almost too great to bear. I head for the door, blind as a mole in its tunnel. At first I can feel only the rough plaster of the wall but, finally, my fingertips find timber planks. Inch by careful inch — I must not hit the latch and make it rattle — I find the bar. With infinite care, lest the wood squeak, I lift it out of its socket.

  Will Scaff be there? Is he there now, as he threatened?

  I let the door swing towards me, holding it all the while.

  The room where we sat eating and drinking is as dark as the one behind me. Carefully, I put my hands out, my heart vying with my bladder for which will burst first. Staring into the thick blackness in front of my eyes, I crouch down, feel inch by inch before me.

  Ale-soaked, rotting rushes. I move forward, feeling blindly. Nothing. No sleeping Scaff on the threshold.

  With the prospect of escape and release urging me forwards, I begin to make my way towards the back door.

  Inching forward, I hold my hands low, looking for wooden edges lest I run into a table or bench, my ears on stalks for sounds of Scaff. If he was a yard away, he would hear my heart for it is knocking my ribs like knuckles.