Fair Weather

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Yes, it matters,” he replied. “Tell me about this other woman. You’ve seen her before, many times I think.”

  I looked him in the eyes and I said, “Yes, I see her. She sees me.”

  “And you know her name.” His expression was unusually earnest, his eyes clear and free of either irony or malice. “Don’t be frightened,” he said, and he was entirely gentle. “Although you may not believe it, you can trust me in this. Besides,” he seemed to sigh, “you’ve already told me so much more than you can possibly appreciate.”

  “She’s Molly,” I said, hanging my head. I already regretted having told him what I saw.

  He frowned, waiting, but when I said nothing more, he sighed again. “She has another name,” he said, which astonished me. “A more – dangerous name, and a more dangerous power. Do you know her other name? Does she speak to you of opening the doors between time? The worlds of future, and present, and past?”

  I was suddenly freezing cold. I shivered. “No. I don’t know what you mean.” Then, rather pathetically, “In the dream there was an arch and a door and a key and a lock. But that’s nothing to do with Molly. She’s – nice.”

  “You have seen the symbols of transgression, degeneration and transmutation,” Vespasian said, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself, and his voice was even less audible than normal. “And through the opening of the ways comes this woman from the future time whom I have met, though she only cloaks another who has not yet come. Tilda,” he looked up sharply at me, “you’re bound into the danger that surrounds all of us. More deeply than any other – except myself. I am sorry. It was not what I intended.”

  I was uncomfortable that he knelt at my feet, when in the past I had usually knelt at his. “But it was you who pulled me into it,” I said rather plaintively. “You’ve admitted it. You exchanged me for Gerald, knowing I’d be tortured, almost to death. I could have died. You didn’t care.”

  He smiled and for once it was a small, gentle smile though it barely tucked the corners of his mouth. “That is what I allowed you to believe for reasons of my own, but it is not, in fact, the truth.” His eyes went very dark. “At least, not the whole truth. Perhaps you have a right to know – a little – of what happened. In the end, when there was so much already spoiled and lost, I exchanged your pain for Gerald’s safety. At first I warned you repeatedly not to interfere. You should not have come to the castle. It was not intended, at least not by me. When you were younger, and just my Tilda – you were a more obedient child. I expected you to turn back and obey my warnings. But now you have complicated a situation which was already deeply complicated. Instead of helping me, as I suppose you wished, you became an additional responsibility. No, I did not intend you to come. I was furious when I found you.”

  Yes, I remembered how angry he had seemed in the turret room as he bandaged my breasts. “I don’t understand.” At last I was beginning to.

  “I went to bring Richard back. I knew where they’d taken him. I thought it was possible he was still alive because I knew they wanted Gerald, and might bargain an exchange. I would not have given Gerald, but I might have rescued Richard. But it was purely sentiment. A weakness. I should have sacrificed Richard and stayed to protect the rest of you. I misjudged the risk of leaving. You have suffered for that, little one. I do not normally permit myself misjudgements. I am therefore to blame.”

  He never usually talked like that and I valued it. “So who led us on and kept the hoof marks clear? And sent the storm that dragged me into the castle?”

  “Arthur. You know who he is,” said Vespasian. “You were a virgin child and as such, useful to him for sacrifice. He also has his own lusts to satisfy. More importantly, he believed he could use you as a lever against me. He almost succeeded. Then he began to suspect what I already knew, that there’s a division within you Tilda, an inherent power, that I doubt you begin to understand yourself. I created the barrier when you arrived at the river. I tried to force you back. It was Arthur who brought the storm and dragged you in. His influence was stronger than mine, for it was multiplied by every other person in the castle. I was alone, and at that moment, held close.”

  “And it was you who found me in the dungeons and took me to the turret room?” Vespasian nodded, and I said, “It’s real sorcery then. Real magic. Terrible magic.”

  “It is,” Vespasian said, his voice just a breath. “Now, although undoubtedly it will seem remarkably unjust, this is more explanation than I have ever given anyone and is enough for now. You should rest.”

  “Please – just one more thing.” I sat forward urgently as he stood, reaching out to him. “When you said, when you admitted it was you. I mean, what you did. That – particular – torture. You said you did it. Were you lying then as well? Was it – him too?”

  He looked down at me, black eyes and no emotion. “That it was I who raped you? No. I was not lying, pequena. That was the truth.”

  That night I ran away.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Tilda chose to return to London. She had spent the few happy years of her life in London’s back streets and there the memories of Vespasian were untroubled and remained innocent.

  She had been born in the West Country but if she returned there she could be taken as a runaway serf and put back into bondage. That had been the first time she had escaped a life she refused to accept. Nor would she risk the direction of the castle. So she went back to London. It took only one day and though twice we were lost, nothing in the forest could frighten me anymore. She and I found our way again and kept the setting sun to our left. There were streams for drinking and I had packed a hunk of brown oat bread in my pack. I had baked it myself but it was not very nice.

  A cold wind blew low through the branches, and flurries of red and brown leaf deserted their trees and drifted below, all patterned like Turkey rugs. I picked blackberries from their thorns, pricking my fingers until blood collected under my nails and mixed with the sweet berry juice. I knew it would be late and the city gates locked against me as I arrived, so when I came to the edge of the wood and saw the distant huddle of London’s wood and thatch, I walked no further but settled for the night, curling beneath the furred cloak Vespasian had given me and the woollen coverlet I had brought from his bed. When I woke it was already morning, the sun was warm and the dew was steaming damp around me.

  I crossed London’s Bridge over the wide brown Thames. Shoved by traffic, shoppers and travellers, pushing and squabbling, I mingled with the sweating crowds. A tight knot of brown skirted monks elbowed me back, thrusting their own way to the front. I was splattered with mud from cart wheels but avoided the pile of mule droppings and quickly lifted the hems of my cloak. I loved the cloak Vespasian had given me. Blue and velvet lined with a trimming of white miniver, the palla of a girl who should be riding her own palfrey and not shuffling through the dirt.

  London was bustling. It wasn’t market day but the bath houses were open down by the river and a welter of women and their bundles were arriving at the gates, the whores slipping in around the back. Outside the Crusader’s Tavern two lounging knights flashed their chain mail in the sun, drinking ale and playing chess while their squires bickered over a game of dice. Up beyond was the Shambles, the butchers’ quarter. Its alleys were open drains and the blood and chicken heads, feathers and bones too small for the pot, all streamed down to the river. Three barges were moored to the muddy banks, piled with fish, while a small crane cranked proud, unloading crates of best cloth from Flanders, the fat captain screaming his orders. Two small boats skimmed mid river. Experienced boatmen, they had shot the bridge as only experts dared, speeding beneath one of the nineteen wide arches and avoiding the surges and whirls of water around the fat stone pillars.

  I stepped over the stream of urine and excrement that found its level down the middle of each lane, packed earthen streets dipping to a central valley. The pillory was empty but the gibbet had taken a new body and it swung in the breeze, spre
ading its stench. The three others in the row were old bones but the new corpse had been a fine young man and he still wore most of his clothes except his boots. The hangman always took the boots. I hurried into the back streets.

  Our old house bent outwards, peering over to the smaller building opposite. The alleyway was so narrow that I could almost stretch out my arms and touch both sides. There were no shops here. This was a place of forgotten people. Our front door was shut and barred and that surprised me for Vespasian had sold to Jack, the saddle and leather merchant, a friend whose business we had never been allowed. Jack and his fat wife had always kept open house and she baked her own bread, finer than the miller’s, which she had sometimes given me free. Now the house was locked fast. The wooden tub which stood beside our door collecting rainwater, was now broken as if someone had splintered it with an axe. Those barrels stood by law, ready to fight the hundred fires which caught so regularly in the smoking wooden chimneys and thatches. But no one had replaced it. The upper storey was lightless. No smoke, no smell of baking, no movement. Dogs were barking somewhere. I whirled around and ran back down the alley.

  Jack Saddler’s shop was tiny. In the back shadows a hundred flayed leathers hung to dry over the smell of tallow soap and candle and the rhythmic scrape of scrubbing hides. He brought them in from the tanneries out east, but sometimes finished off any rough work, and even sometimes cured his own. Now Jack sat in the doorway, working the thick hard leather into supple beauty. His face had become as tanned as his hides and his eyes seemed like dark studs in the sides of a saddle.

  “How are you?” I asked him. “How’s business? How’s Agatha? And Wat and Emma and Mabel?”

  He looked up at me. “That really you Tilda? How you’ve grown. I’d only have recognised you from your voice, if you hadn’t reeled off all the names of my little ones like you always did. You look like a proper grand lady. Pretty as a picture. So Vespasian married you after all, then?”

  I stared at him, momentarily distracted. “What on earth would make you think such a thing?”

  Jack winked. “I saw the way you looked at him all those years. And the way he looked at you.”

  “Well, you got it wrong,” I snorted. “It was Isabel he liked,” and then I wished I hadn’t mentioned Isabel at all.

  “Well, that’s just the point, isn’t it now?” said Jack. “You was too young. Vespasian, well, reckon he had too much respect. He were saving you for later and a proper decent marriage.”

  “He hasn’t been showing me much respect lately,” I said, rather bleak. “Anyway, that’s not what I came here for. I’m not married to anyone and I’m not going to be. Ever. I just passed by the old house and found it locked up so I wondered what happened. Was there – any trouble?”

  “There certainly was,” said the saddler, putting down his tools. “You mentioned poor Isabel. Well, all about her, it was. I suppose you heard. They found her all cut about and half drowned, poor lass. Quite dead she was, a nasty business. The sheriff come around looking for Vespasian. But I spoke up. Told him you’d all gone away some time before.”

  I thanked him and asked, “What happened?”

  “I were sent to the mayor’s office,” said Jack, looking proud. “I told them what I knew but that weren’t much. Well, I’d seen Isabel for some weeks before, flirting with that sour young knight what used to hang around. Well, we all knew what poor Isabel used to be way back, before Vespasian took her in, poor lost sinner she was. I warned Vespasian when I first saw her with that fancy man. But I didn’t know no names and I didn’t know where he come from.”

  “A knight?” I moved into the shadows of the shop doorway. “Dark and skinny? Short cut hair, loose jawed and eyes that slant?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, though I hardly remember now. It were another man entirely what came to the house afterwards.”

  “What happened?” I had guessed already.

  “This old gentleman come riding up. My Agatha was at the brick ovens across the square and the young’uns was playing in the street outside. A right foul looking gent he were, but him being elderly and maybe some lord, I were polite at first. Asked me impertinent questions and wanted to know all about Vespasian, though he called him by some other name first, until I put him right. Jasper, he said. No one o’ that name, I said. Man owned the house and sold to me is called Vespasian Fairweather.”

  Small clues clicking into place like the wooden beads on a rosary. “What did you tell him?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “Well, I didn’t have no idea where you’d all gone so I couldn’t tell him, could I? He got right nasty. Flashed his sword and well nigh cut my nose off. I threatened him with the law and he laughed. Well, the next day the bailiff turned up and chucked us all out the house. Locked and barred the doors, he did, and told us not to come back. Confiscated by the crown and we was forbidden to come near. Not a penny compensation and a few more threats thrown in. Well, we’d no choice and I wouldn’t risk no trouble, not with Agatha expecting again.”

  “So you’re back living in the room over the shop?”

  “It don’t bother us none,” nodded Jack. “I don’t want trouble. But you’d best warn Vespasian when you see him next. I don’t want my money back nor nothing, seeing it weren’t his fault. But warn him, will you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I suppose I should.” I thought of Vespasian’s never ending supply of money, and would have liked to give poor Jack his money back. But I didn’t want to see Vespasian at all.

  I slept under the eaves of the bath house that night but it was cold and the forest had seemed a sweeter bed. The dirty street was a bastard place, neither natural nor human. I had expected the great bathhouse tubs of water and hot fogs of steam would insulate the walls and keep me safe for the night, but I was wrong. It stank and the damp reek was colder than the fresh breeze in the leaves. I woke very early and shivered my way back into London rhythms.

  If Jack Saddle had been living in our old house I would have had friends and a pallet with one of the children. I could have helped Agatha with the cleaning. I would have been safe and warm until I decided on a more permanent destination. It hadn’t worked that way I expected, as life never does. Jack was back living in one room above the shop with no space for me. He thought I was well dressed, proof of affluence, and never guessed what I was hoping for. So I moved on.

  London was full of beggars. They slept where they could. Once Tilda had been one of them and she had slept under the stone bridge until Vespasian found her. But I would not sleep under that bridge any more, not since Isabel’s death. At least I could steal enough to eat, though not enough to buy me a lodging.

  The Convent of the Little Sisters of Angelica stood behind high brick walls out beyond Cripplegate. Once I had begged from the nuns, and once I had stolen the pennies the fat prioress had collected for the poor. A sin of course, but I was one of the poor and considered myself entitled. Now I walked through the narrow back streets heading north towards Cripplegate, looking for the sloping roadway that I would eventually recognise. With the autumn sun sinking, I hurried through the gateway and into Grub Street.

  It had already begun to drizzle and my pretty cloak lost its blue shimmer, now smelling a little of mule shit and leaf little its rich velvet lining still kept me snuggled warm, but it was evening when I found what I was looking for. Tall trees peered over the top of the walls and the iron gate was locked. I rang the traveller’s bell and it clanked through the echoes of the wind. The stars were peeping through a sullen darkness. I could hear the rustle of skirts and a whisper of impatience but they opened the gate for me and I slipped inside.

  Between the shadows was a long pathway wide enough for carts and horses. A small plump nun muffled in her rigid black habit, led me quickly towards the lights in the high windows beyond. An owl called shrill across the clouds. I put my head down and scurried behind. The convent door was open and welcoming, the warm flicker of beeswax candles and the smell of hot food. “Quick,”
said the little nun, “you took me from my dinner.”

  “I’m sorry,” beneath my breath.

  The convent was the largest building I had ever seen and even greater than the strange castle on the river. Inside, once the door clanged behind me, it was deliciously inviting. A hundred embroidered tapestries in brilliant colours lined the walls. A hundred candles lined the hall in iron sconces and the high beams collected flickering shadows. At the far end a huge wooden cross was embossed in gold. Below, five long tables and their benches stood in parallel rows. Hunched on the benches were the nuns, each a busy black, leaning over their bowls and trenchers. Few bothered to turn as I and my guide hustled in. At the head of one table the Abbot carved the roast venison and the perfume beckoned. I was reminded how little I had eaten for two days. The meat fell tender from its carcass, spilling juices across the long table. Not a convent of frugal self-sacrifice, I assumed, nor strict vows of poverty. The Abbot licked his fingers.

  “An hour more, mistress, and you would not have been admitted,” he told me, looking up briefly. “We lock our doors after compline. But now you’re here, come in and share our meagre supper. Find a place. There’s food enough and you’re welcome to stay one night. All travellers are welcome to stay one night.”

  I had hoped to stay longer but I said nothing and bent my knee to him. There was space at the bench of the novices. My young neighbour helped me fill my trencher and passed me a spoon. I had no knife, so she cut a thick slice of meat for me. Tilda had rarely eaten so much or so well. I kept my breath for the food and not for talking. No one spoke to me. Passing travellers were common enough I expect, though surely young unaccompanied women must have been rare. Yet no one seemed curious about my arrival alone and at such a late hour. There was wine and ale and clean water and seemingly endless food. Finally there was too much and I put down my spoon and watched the faces around me. The Abbot could exhibit his bad manners at his own table but I resisted licking my fingers; one of Vespasian’s lessons, and wiped them instead on my napkin. I didn’t want to look like the country child that I felt.