by Nerys Jones
‘Good people of this town of Coventry,’ she began, and then choked and had to start again. ‘Good people,’ she carried on. ‘I knew when I left that you were in danger of hunger, but I did not expect to see you struck down so quickly, so badly. You must tell me what happened. You first, Frith,’ she said, pointing at the baker.
‘There was want before you left, lady. Then the harvest died in the fields. And the stores of grain and flour went bad. Mould and rot. I’ve been making bread with old rye grain mixed with root peelings that women usually give to pigs. It’s got no strength in it, and anyway there’s little of that left, either.’
‘And the cattle plague got worse,’ shouted the tanner. ‘We been sending the boys out to fish every day and trap birds, but they be town boys by now and don’t catch too much.’
‘Trade is dead,’ the tinsmith added. ‘People be afraid of carrying the cattle plague back home with them, so they don’t come to town no more. Anyway, most of the villages to the west of here have lost cows too and they don’t have money to spend in Coventry no more. They’re sending men to meet the Bristol merchants to buy grain, and that’s costing them all they have.’
‘I can help you with buying grain,’ she started to say. But someone interrupted her. It was Father Godric’s wife, Hilde, who had wormed her way through the crowd to face her husband.
‘There be more than hunger in Coventry. There be bad spirits, too.’ Someone shouted, ‘Shut her up’, but Hilde carried on. ‘Folk be taking to the forest to make sacrifices. And others spread tales. They say the king hates Coventry for that we be bad people here – fornicators and adulterers and sodomites. The king will punish our sins, and the sins of the House of Lovric . . .’
At that someone clapped his hand over Hilde’s mouth and pulled her back into the crowd, where she disappeared in a flurry of elbows and curses. Godric tried to apologize to Godiva, but she shook her head.
‘I can only take one step at a time,’ she shouted over the heads of the crowd. ‘First I will give you what I have.’
The contents of her own purse, and the reserve of treasure with which she always travelled and which the captain of the guard protected, were now emptied out into the hands of the innkeeper, because he, of all the tradesmen in the town, was the one most used to handling a lot of money. He counted it out slowly at the base of the cross before everyone, and then announced the total. Everyone who had a house was entitled to a share, and those with big families would receive an extra amount.
‘Take this money and buy whatever grain you can get at once,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about getting a fair price. We’ll settle scores in future with whoever overcharges us now. When I get to Cheylesmore manor, I will empty the barns all over my home farm for you and for whatever other villages are starving. By bedtime tonight everyone must have a full belly.’
A cheer went up, weak but hopeful. Godiva thought it the saddest sound she had ever heard, more like a moan than a shout, longing for life even when it was so cruel. Once again she felt hot with shame: just a few hours ago, beset by worries, she had dreamed of the stillness of a watery grave. She, who had never once seen her own flesh melt away, or felt hunger bite her guts, or seen a strong child’s life dwindle to nothing at her breast for want of milk – she had idly dreamed of death. What a coward she had been.
In silence they rode on towards the manor, wondering what troubles might be waiting there. At first everything seemed unchanged. The manor’s herds had not caught the cattle plague because they were kept apart from other livestock and their attendants had stayed on the manor to avoid contact with infected beasts. The milkmaids, being well fed, looked as they always did, plump and smooth-skinned. If there was a change it was subtle: their cheers, though warm and genuine, were slightly subdued, for everyone had family nearby and none of the girls could help them much. In the yard, the servants of the hall and the manor house were lined up to welcome the mistress, and they too appeared well. Godiva looked them over and felt relieved. She dismounted and went to shake everyone’s hand, starting with Gwen. But Gwen wasn’t at the head of the line, and suddenly she realized that Milly was absent, too. Instead Bertha had pride of place, and now she was standing in front of Godiva with her legs apart and arms folded, ready to give her a good dollop of bad news.
‘There be sickness here, lady,’ she said with grim satisfaction. ‘Gwen got it bad, and Mistress Milly took to her bed yesterday.’
‘What kind of sickness?’
‘Fever and aches, coughing and sweating.’
‘Nothing on the skin?’
‘No. No rashes or pustules.’
‘And the stomach?’
‘No vomiting nor bleeding. Some headache, though. Gwen be complaining bad about her head.’
‘Very well, this is not plague. They have a summer cold, that is all. How many here have it?’
‘Just them two and a swineherd, but none else yet.’
Godiva turned to one of her men. ‘This sickness could travel through the manor. I want you and one other man to go back to the town. Tell them we will bring the grain to them ourselves as soon as we can. No one must come to the manor from the town. If those hungry people catch this illness, they will die like flies. Go!’
She crossed the threshold into the manor house and instantly felt the joy she always felt at coming home, but now it was a joy tinged with concern. There would be so much to do, and do very quickly. To her surprise, Bret appeared at the door.
‘Excuse me, lady,’ he began diffidently, ‘but I heard you say we will get the grain into town as soon as possible. Let me do that for you. The hall-men agree with me that we should get every cart and pack animal readied for haulage, and every hand, including all the women and children, over to the barns. If we don’t act quickly you could break your promise that everyone will sleep tonight on a full stomach.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, deeply relieved to have this assistance just when it was needed. ‘Reserve the contents of two barns for the manor’s use. That should be enough to keep us going till we buy in more grain. And Bret, I am going to make you my foreman. Tell the reeve to come and see me about that. You are wasted in the forest.’
After Bret left, Godiva went at once to see Gwen and Milly in the sick-room. Gwen didn’t seem to hear her come in. Milly raised her head, saw who it was and turned to face the wall.
‘I’m sorry you are unwell, child,’ Godiva said, taking Milly’s hand and feeling how hot it was. Milly pulled her hand away as soon as she could. ‘What is it, dear?’ Godiva asked.
‘You know quite well what is the matter, mother. My wedding is delayed and now I’m sick. The manor has been neglected because Gwen has been sick for nearly a week. Do you expect me to be glad, just because you’re home? You should never have gone away in the first place.’
‘You do not know the circumstances, Milly.’
‘I doubt that you do either, mother. You wouldn’t see a fly if it landed on your nose.’
The old impulse to slap Milly on the mouth came upon Godiva at once, and she got up to go.
‘You are in good hands here with our nurse. So I will leave you now.’
‘Good riddance,’ said Milly into her pillow, too quietly for Godiva to hear. But Gwen did.
‘You nasty little bitch,’ she muttered, before yielding to such a noisy attack of coughing that Milly’s retort could not be heard.
Godiva closed the door on them with relief. She was sorry they were sick, but it was just as well that they were in seclusion and out of her way. She would need all her presence of mind to get her people through the next ten days. If they survived that, they would live.
With this thought in mind she left the sick-room, picked her way through the herb garden and entered the yard. Suddenly she stopped, halted in her tracks by the scene of pulsing vitality that now confronted her. Bret had gathered in all hands from the manor grounds and already they were loading sacks of reserved grain and other dried supplies on to carts, donkeys
, horses and the backs of some of the fittest young men. The campaign to feed the starving people of Coventry was under way. Thank God, she thought, for sending me Bret.
Ten
The next morning Godiva awoke to an unwonted silence outside her window. For a moment she thought she was still in the hostelry in Winchester, but her bed was empty and there was no sign of Lovric. She opened the window to breathe in the still, early morning air, and a puppy, frightened by the sudden movement above his head, yelped loudly. Then she realized what was wrong. The rooster was silent. He was missing from the dung hill on the north side of the palisade. He must be dead, she thought, for you could hear him crowing up to a mile away. And if the rooster was dead, what had happened to all the hens?
Cautious with drowsiness, she crept down the stairs and nudged Agatha to wake up and get breakfast started. Then she went out into the yard and looked about her. Something had changed while she was away. There was a slight air of abandonment about the manor. It was more than merely untidy after last night’s activity; there was an underlying neglect. She almost tripped on a rake that had been dropped near a casually scooped pile of rubbish, and made a mental note to find out who had done that. Pulling her shawl tightly round her head to cover her unruly, undressed hair, she went in search of a servant. But there was no one to be seen. Without Gwen on the prowl, they felt safe to lie in later than usual. Only in the dairy would the maids be up, for the cows would bellow in pain if milking did not begin at the crack of dawn. Godiva sighed and began to walk to the milking sheds at the other end of the yard.
Working by the light of rush candles, eight dairy maids were busy on their stools, heads down and hands pulling away rhythmically beneath the healthy cows’ bursting udders. It was a reassuring sight and Godiva lingered for a moment, watching them.
‘I’m done with this one, lady,’ said one of the girls, loosening the tether that bound the cow’s knees and carefully removing her bucket before the cow could kick it over in annoyance. She patted the beast affectionately on her nose while saying some kind words in her ear. ‘This here be Cressy,’ the girl said, smiling proudly at Godiva. ‘I brought her up from being a newly calved three-year-old what couldn’t be doing with her calf, to her now being our best milker. I get such butter from her you can’t believe.’
‘Good, Ethel,’ said Godiva, pulling back her shawl. ‘But does anyone here know what happened to my rooster?’
The girls looked up from their milking and glanced at each other uncomfortably.
‘Some say fox come in and kill some of the chickens,’ Ethel said at last. ‘Them that got away went up into the trees and won’t come down for fear of God. The rooster, he just plain disappeared. Coward, I reckon.’
‘Rooster pie, I reckon,’ said a big girl, removing her pail and straightening her cramped back. Ethel frowned at her, but the girl went on. ‘A man in the hall went out in the small hours last week, and heard some noise by the dung heap. Not a ruckus like hens flying from a fox, but a quiet noise, like men stealing around trying not to disturb the birds. There be one big squawk and in the morning rooster be gone, and a few hens, too. And all the eggs what got laid after pick-up time the day before, they be gone, too. We reckon they ended up as chicken soup and breakfast eggs in the town, lady. Sorry to say.’
‘Thank you,’ Godiva said, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘Go back to your work now.’
As she closed the cowshed door she could hear a loud conversation breaking out behind her. It was punctuated only by the plaintive lowing of those cows whose milking was not yet finished, for there was none of the usual laughter one heard amongst the dairy girls once they had finished milking. They too are worried, Godiva realized. She thought of going back to tell them to have forbearance with the hungry people down the lane, but they must know that many of the barns had been emptied to feed the town. They would be too frightened for their own stomachs to feel much concern for others.
In the manor house, breakfast was on the table. Agatha had prepared wheat porridge, bacon, liver-sausage and fried bread, and a herb tea that might ward off the sickness that was going around. But no eggs. Godiva said nothing about that and started to eat quickly, vowing that she would not eat this well again until there was food for all. Then she began to run through all the things she had to do as quickly as possible. Suddenly she realized Agatha was very quiet and staying out of her way.
‘Did you eat?’
‘Yes, lady,’ came a subdued voice from the back kitchen, where Agatha was scraping dishes into a pail. Godiva summoned her and Agatha, head bowed, reluctantly entered the room with her headdress pulled over half her face. Godiva immediately recalled Adel in Oxford and told Agatha to show her face. But Agatha stood stock still, holding on to a loose end of her headdress, and then she burst into tears.
‘Who hit you?’ Godiva asked, not waiting to see the damage. ‘Well, it could only have been your mother. Last night, I suppose. When you were down here and I was sleeping upstairs. Go and get her.’
But Agatha made no move.
‘Very well,’ Godiva sighed, getting up.
‘Wait, lady,’ Agatha burst out. ‘It were my fault alone. Mother reprimanded me, and I gave her back-talk.’
Her eyes were dark with fear, for if Godiva told Bertha to leave the manor, the children in Bertha’s cottage would starve like the children in town.
‘My dear Agatha,’ she said softly, ‘I will speak to Bertha later. As for you, be careful how you address your mother. You have become her equal in the manor, and she won’t like it.’
Agatha pulled herself together and went back to her chores.
Godiva dressed without her help and a few minutes later set off to talk to the master of the hall. She found Odo deep in conversation with Bret, both of them looking serious but relaxed, as though they had taken in hand all the most important matters that would prevent the crisis deepening.
‘I sent for the reeve last night,’ Odo said, ‘but he sent back asking permission to stay out in Stivichall. There’s been another suicide. Drovers came through again last week. He says no need for you to come down there this time, though, lady. It would be enough if you sent Father Godric to say a prayer when they bury him under the tree where he hanged himself.’
Godiva frowned. ‘Shouldn’t we give him a Christian burial, like the last one?’
‘No, he had an idol on him. If he be buried under that tree, there’ll be no more suicides there. Even folk who are looking to kill themselves don’t want to go straight to hell’s mouth with a pagan spirit for company.’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll send Godric. Now, something else – I want someone to go from the hall to where the drovers’ road enters my lands. Tell the farmers of Stoneleigh to block that road with trees and put a diseased cow’s head on a post beside the barricade. There must be no more cattle movements over my lands or we’ll never get rid of this plague. How is the culling going? Was there any trouble?’
‘No trouble, but discontent. Anyways, we be almost done, lady,’ said Odo. ‘They killed on the last farm a week ago and we’ve heard of no new cases since.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes, but it were a sad, sad sight. I never seen hard farmers weep like children before. The piles of carcasses burned for hours and the stench lingered for days. You could see the smoke rising from all the villages, and it looked like the end of the world. Some be angry, saying they didn’t agree with the cull.’
‘Prayers. People need to be praying all the time until things get better, or else they will have the Devil for company soon. I’ll go to the priory at once and arrange that. We’ll send monks out to the villages.’
‘Ha! They’ll need spears in their backs. Them monks have closed the doors of the priory. There been no services, except for themselves, since just after you went to Winchester, lady.’
‘I’ll go and see Prior Edwin at once. Bret, come with me and get out the town crier to tell the people what we are doing to help them.
’
She turned to go, but Odo seized her elbow.
‘Wait, mistress. What about buying in grain? We should be doing that first, before anything else – before other lordships buy up what can be got.’
‘You’re right, Odo. I’ll see to that now. You’ll have to take the money with you under guard, for there’ll be bandits in the forests by now. Where can we buy grain?’
‘Grain merchants from Bristol have arrived already at Butt Field in Allesley, following the drovers’ route. A party of us should go by barge along the Sherbourne and get what we can.
We could be back by nightfall and get food into town straight away. And replenish our own barns, too. I don’t want men to grow nervous in the hall, thinking they may have to go hungry to feed the town.’
A little later, after counting out half the silver coins stored in her chest and giving them to Odo, Godiva set off with Bret on small ponies sometimes used by the manor for trotting back and forth to the market square. A breeze was blowing, lifting her lightly veiled loose hair. Bret could not help but glance at her and think how beautiful she was in the midst of all her troubles. Beautiful and good, too. He sighed heavily and rubbed the sweat from his brow.
‘You have a kind heart, Bret. But don’t worry, we will put things to rights soon. No one will starve in Coventry.’
He reached out and touched her hand. ‘It is you who are kind, lady. And brave and beautiful.’
Godiva’s eyes met his, and as there was no one to observe them she held his gaze and smiled back at him in a way that she had never done before. Bret’s heart pounded with triumph and then with sharp desire. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.
At the town cross they parted, Bret heading to the town crier’s house, and Godiva going to knock at the door of the priory, which was barred against the outside world as Odo had said it would be. To her surprise there was a prompt response, the bolts were withdrawn and Prior Edwin stood there in person to greet her.