Child of the May

by Theresa Tomlinson

  It was after noon when they passed over the deep ditch and in through the northern gate of Nottingham Town. They walked past the Butter Cross and through the market place. The market was in full swing, rowdy with the shouts of pedlars and stallholders, but above all the bustle loomed the great stone towers of the castle, built upon a high rock.

  Magda was distracted by the market sights and sounds, her head muddled with the clamour and her nose twitching at the strange mixture of smells.

  “Spices from Araby! Cinnamon and ginger!” A woman wafted a pinch of sharp-smelling brown powder beneath her nose.

  “Fresh pies,” another shouted.

  “Sweet honey cakes!”

  “Fine roast pork! Fill your belly! Salted crackling!”

  Philippa grabbed Magda’s arm and led her boldly on towards the castle. “Not here,” she insisted. “Look out for a potter’s stall.”

  Magda wondered what on earth they could want with pots when Lady Matilda and Isabel were in danger, but she was so amazed by what she saw that she didn’t argue. John and Tom followed as she and Philippa went on through the stone-built gateway and into the castle’s outer bailey.

  Here there were more stalls and bustle, but Philippa took a quick look around and marched on over the next bridge and into the middle bailey.

  “There,” Tom spoke quietly. “I see him.”

  John swore under his breath. “Damn the man. Can he get no closer? Must he sit under the Sheriff’s nose? If he got any closer he’d be in the Sheriff’s kitchens.”

  Philippa shrugged her shoulders. “Best place to see what’s going on.”

  The middle bailey was alive with soldiers and horses and kitchen maids buying produce from stalls and pedlars. Magda looked about for Robert, but she could see no sign of him. There were just two pottery stalls and a loud-mouthed fellow in a straw hat, grabbing all the customers with his shouting of wares and low prices. Then all at once she saw Brother James, handing out benedictions to the castle guards, and collecting pennies in a bowl, a saintly look upon his face. John went to him and knelt down.

  Brother James made the sign of the cross and whispered in his ear. John answered and Brother James looked piously up to heaven and spoke again as though chanting.

  “A long blessing this is going to be!” Philippa folded her arms and tapped her foot.

  When at last John returned, they clustered about him.

  “Well?”

  “What’s up?”

  John sighed and wouldn’t be rushed. “Robert’s worried about Isabel. King John has told Matilda that she must pay him four hundred pounds or marry her daughter to some murderous soldier captain. Robert and James want us to find a horse and have it ready up by the northern gate. They’ve seen that the wolfpack has arrived. Brother James has his eye on their steeds – trust him.”

  “Nay!” Philippa swore quietly. “Does he think we’re tired of living?”

  “Just one,” said John. “One good fast horse to hitch to the wagon. Lady Matilda cannot ride.”

  “We could maybe manage to steal just one of their mounts,” said Tom. “There’s plenty of us to distract them while it’s taken.”

  “Not Magda,” said John. “I’ll not have my lass at risk. This is what I feared.”

  “Leave her with Robert,” said Philippa. “He’s only watching, isn’t he?”

  John looked anxious. “When did he ever just watch?”

  Magda stared about her, puzzled. “Robert? He’s not even here.”

  Her friends laughed quietly and John relented. He put his arm round his daughter’s shoulder and gently turned her towards the noisy potter’s stall. “Our Robert is here all right, my darling. Go up to yon fellow with the plates. Stand behind the trestle as though you were the potter’s lad and do not move from the man’s side.”

  Magda took a few hesitant steps towards the busy stall and then stopped. There, chalked at the top of the wooden frame for all to see was a circle, with one white shape in the middle.

  “Ahh!” She caught her breath. “Robert’s sign!” She turned quickly then to look at the man who stood shouting and bawling in the centre of the crowd. His face was turned away from her and she could not see him clearly as the crowds pressed so close.

  “Best Mansfield earthenware!” he sang out. “Goodwives, you’ll never find better! Plates and bowls, fine enough for the Sheriff’s own table!”

  Magda stared at the back of the potter’s neck. How could it be him? This was not Robert’s quiet, angry way of speaking. The hat he wore was covered with fine spatters of dried clay. Magda moved closer. Even the hair at the back of his neck was clay-streaked. Then he turned and she saw at once the ugly scar that marred his cheek. It was Robert. Ever since she’d been tiny she’d shuddered at the sight of that scar. But where had all these pots come from? All at once she understood; she remembered the angry face of the man who sheltered in Langden forge. An unwilling guest from Mansfield, Philippa had said.

  Suddenly Magda’s stomach lurched, for Robert had seen her. He looked directly at her through the shoving crowd. Would he know her, looking like this? Just for one brief moment he frowned and hesitated, but then quickly he shouted at her.

  “So there you are, you rascal! Where have you been? Pass me those platters! I can’t keep pace, they’re so greedy for pots in Nottingham today!”

  Magda blinked and swallowed hard, then dived behind the stall to do as he asked. As soon as she had time to pause, she glanced back at her father. Tom and Philippa strode off towards the castle stables. John followed them slowly.

  The potter of Mansfield and his lad worked hard. Never at any time did Robert speak to her as anything other than his apprentice, but at one point when she turned to pick up a fine set of platters from the back of the trestle, he told her to let them be.

  “Not those,” he hissed. “I’m hoping that I’ll get a special customer for those, what with the wolfpack arriving unexpectedly and the castle full of guests.”

  Magda did not understand what he meant, but she was distracted by the loud complaints that came from the man on the next stall.

  “No profit at those prices,” he grumbled to his boy. “Might as well pack up – the light is fading fast. Set about it and don’t tha drop aught this time.”

  The other potter’s lad looked utterly miserable. Magda could not help but feel a touch sorry and bent close to whisper in his ear. “We’ll not be here next week.”

  The boy glowered and showed her his fist and Magda remembered that he must suppose her to be a lad. She had a job not to giggle, but stood back and tried again in a deep gruff voice.

  “My master may be selling plates like hot cakes today,” she said, “but he’ll be off to another town next week. Then your master shall have his custom back.”

  The boy pulled a face. “Mind your own business,” he said, again making fists of both his hands and throwing a punch close to Magda’s face.

  “Watch out!” he warned her. “I’m training to be a squire.” He pulled a cheaply-made dagger from his belt and swung it close to her cheek.

  Magda was not John’s daughter for nothing. She closed her right fist hard and hit him smartly on the chin. The lad went down, sprawling at her feet, the dagger clattering on the cobbles. His jerkin slipped open revealing a strange red patch beneath his collarbone.

  Magda stared and the lad covered himself quickly.

  “Does that pain thee?” Magda asked.

  “Nay.” The boy spoke sharply. “Not at all.”

  Magda took the boy’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “You’re hot,” she said. “Feverish?”

  “No,” he insisted, sticking the dagger back into his belt.

  So many years spent in the Forestwife’s clearing brought Marian’s wisdom flooding into Magda’s head. “Has tha tried a lavender brew?”

  “To drink?” The boy’s eyes showed reluctant interest.

  “Nay. Brew it up, then let it cool and dab it on those sore patches.”
r />   All at once, the boy’s hands were shaking. He pulled two pennies from his pouch and without another word was off, running between the stalls to where the herbwives sold their wares.

  Magda turned back to the Mansfield potter’s stall, a little shaken. Truth was she’d never seen sores quite like those strange patches.

  “Shall we pack up?” she asked Robert. “You’ve nothing left to sell, only your special pots. Everyone else is going.”

  “Hush!” Robert smiled, as a sudden flurry of noise and movement started up in the entrance to the castle kitchens. “I believe my special customer arrives.”

  6

  The Sheriff’s Wife

  An angry maid and a young kitchen lad ran out from the castle kitchens. Their aprons were smeared with fat and flour, sleeves rolled up, faces pink and sweating.

  “See! It’s too late, they’re all going,” the maid cried.

  “Nay, here’s one.” The lad caught her arm and pointed to the Mansfield potter’s stall. “And look – a pile of decent platters left. Will you wait a moment, good potter?”

  “I’ll go and fetch my lady,” said the maid.

  Magda felt her heart thudding fast. Whatever was Robert up to now?

  “’Tis like hell in that kitchen,” the lad complained. “You’d think we’d got enough to do finding food and drink for the King and his court, without the wolfpack arriving as well! Drink like fishes they do, and now we’ve run out of platters!” The lad pulled a fearful face and crossed himself. “Sheriff’s lady is right put out! She don’t like to spend her pennies needlessly.”

  Robert shook his head wisely. “Doesn’t do to offend those fellows.”

  “You’re right,” the lad answered with feeling.

  “Don’t fret,” said Robert. “The potter of Mansfield shall come to thy mistress’s aid.”

  The maid appeared again, with an older woman whose silver ladle thrust through her belt marked her as cook. A young page in smart velvet livery burst from the kitchen behind them, and after him followed the grandest woman that Magda had ever set eyes on.

  The Sheriff’s lady was plump and at least fifty. She was dressed in crimson velvet with gold trimmings. The high waist of her gown unfortunately made her large stomach appear even rounder. A horned headress wreathed in veils had slipped slightly to the side, giving her the look of a disgruntled cow. Her fingers were covered in rings, her long nails rouged. Just like her servants she was pink and sweating, and she rubbed her jewelled hands together anxiously.

  “You’d better be right,” she snapped at the cook. “Have you got my purse?” She slapped the small page on the head.

  “Yes, madam,” he squeaked, holding up a leathern drawstring pouch.

  “Fancy having to buy earthenware,” she muttered.

  “Better than no platters at all,” the cook told her firmly.

  By now she was standing before the stall and Robert bowed low to her. Magda almost curtseyed, but remembered in time and copied his deep bow.

  “I hear my lady is short of platters for her guests,” Robert said. With one swift movement he gathered up the pile of good earthenware that he’d saved and spread it across the stall.

  “Hmm! Not bad!” the woman cried. “Though I dare say this will cost me a pretty penny.”

  “Ah no, lady.” Robert spoke quickly. A certain flinty glance at Magda warned her to say nothing, whatever came next. He gave a great sigh and smiled boldly at the Sheriff’s wife. “For such a lovely lady the price is . . . nothing at all. It is an honour to serve such beauty. A gift from the potter of Mansfield.”

  All the servants gaped and Magda had great trouble keeping still and quiet, but the Sheriff’s wife went pinker still and giggled. She flapped her pink bejewelled hand at Robert.

  “Why, Sir Potter,” she said, “I fear you are a very wicked fellow. I accept your gift and . . . you shall dine with us tonight.”

  “Ah no!” Robert was all modesty and hesitation.

  “Yes, you shall – you and your lad! Come pack up your stall and fetch in these pots. I shall make space for you amongst my guests.”

  And with those words she swept away, leaving her servants open-mouthed. But Robert was not for wasting time; he clapped his hands, smiling wickedly at Magda. “Come on, boy! We’re dining at the castle.”

  The kitchen lad had spoken truly, for the castle kitchens were indeed like hell. Cauldrons bubbled over fires, suspended from great chains hooked on to wooden beams. Huge spit roasts of meat flamed and spluttered on the hearths. The place was crammed with servants squabbling and shouting and getting in each other’s way. Torches were fixed to brackets on the walls, but they gave off little light and a lot of smoke. A young servant girl heaved a steaming bucket of water past Magda, slopping it on her arm and making her gasp.

  “Sorry, sir,” she cried. “But it’s no good you standing there, I shall be back for another in a moment. ’Tis for the King’s bath tub. Terrible clean and fussy, he is. Says he must bathe before he eats. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Come,” said Robert taking hold of Magda’s arm. “Come stand at the end of the great hall and see if our grand lady remembers to give us a place.”

  He led Magda through the madness of the kitchens and up the steps into the enormous hall. Already people were gathering for the evening meal. Set upon a raised platform at the far end, the high table was empty. Six long trestles laid out in rows were filling up with soldiers, ladies in waiting and guests of lesser importance.

  “Where shall we sit?” Magda asked, half-fascinated, half-alarmed by the excitement of it all.

  “Just stand and watch,” said Robert. “That suits me well for the moment. Ah yes . . . as I hoped.”

  Magda followed his gaze and saw a young woman in a homespun gown leading a frail old lady. Isabel and Matilda, their poverty more apparent than ever in such gaudy surroundings.

  “Watch them closely,” said Robert. “Ah, I see that help arrives.”

  Magda could not stop herself from smiling at the sight of Brother James slowly parading up and down the hall, still handing out blessings in a most condescending manner.

  “Who could have invited him?” she wondered.

  Robert snorted and grimaced. “Nobody,” he said. “Priest’s garb and knowledge of the Mass will take the man anywhere.”

  “Where is Much?” Magda asked.

  “Guarding my potter’s wagon, up by the northern gate, I hope.”

  Trumpets sounded and everyone rushed to take their seats at the trestle tables. Robert pushed Magda towards the long bench set opposite Langden’s ladies. There was a scramble to sit down, and, for a moment Magda and Isabel looked straight at each other. Just the slight raising of an eyebrow told them that Isabel recognised her fellow guests.

  The trumpet sounded again and everyone struggled to their feet as the King and his queen arrived and took their seats. The Sheriff and his wife bowed and curtseyed profusely, fussing nervously as King John sat down. Magda strained her neck to stare at the man whose cruelty was feared throughout the land.

  “He’s thin and small,” she whispered. “And look at the Queen. She’s nowt but a lass!”

  Before Robert could reply, Magda felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder.

  “Out of my way, lad. How dare you sit before My Lady!”

  Magda yelped as she was cuffed over the ear and thrust aside. A powerfully built, heavy-jowled man with a close-shaved chin bent across the table and snatched up Isabel’s reluctant hand to kiss.

  “Get out,” Robert whispered, pulling Magda along behind him towards the bottom of the next table where Brother James sat.

  “He hit me,” Magda cried, red-faced and rubbing her hurt. “Aren’t you going to stand up for me?”

  Robert’s face had gone white. His voice hissed with anger as he spoke. “I promise you this, my child: death shall be too good for that one. But now is not the time.”

  “Who is he?” Magda demanded.

  “Hu
gh FitzRanulf,” he told her. “Leader of the wolfpack. Dealer in misery!”

  7

  To Dine with the Sheriff’s Wife

  Brother James quickly made room for them on the bench beside him and the meal began. Though the table was groaning with food, Magda could not eat. Her head thudded and her stomach heaved. Excitement had turned to fear.

  “Can we not slip away now?” she whispered, suddenly longing for the wildness and safety of the Forestwife’s clearing.

  Brother James seemed to be calmly eating up everything within reach, but Robert spoke low and answered her. “We’ve not done what we came for yet. You’d do best to eat. Who knows when we’ll eat again! Here, share my trencher and cup.”

  Reluctantly seeing the sense in his words, Magda took a sip of heady spiced wine and began picking at a leg of roast guinea fowl. She tried not to look at Robert’s scarred cheek and slit ear. In the rush to find a seat, she’d sat down on his right-hand side, something she usually avoided. The meal continued and the servants were in and out of the kitchen, bringing platters piled high with roast swan and heron. Gentle strumming of lutes from the musicians up in the gallery soothed her a little, as did the sweet scent of violets and green herbs strewn on the floor. Her spirits lifted at the delicious sight of rose-scented comfits stuffed with candied orange peel, rich creamy frumenty porridge, and hazelnuts in marzipan with honeyed dates.

  Though Robert had told her to eat, he seemed distracted and ate little himself. Magda sensed a tension in the man. He looked up towards the top table and silently reached out to touch Brother James. Though the fat monk did not move a muscle, Magda saw that he was instantly alert, all pleasure in food forgotten.

  “A messenger!” Robert told him. “Could it be they have discovered John and the stolen horse?”

  Suddenly the King was on his feet and flinging his wine cup across the table so that the strong red liquid splashed across the fine gowns of the ladies in waiting.

  “Matilda! Damn the woman!” he screamed. “I’ll have her now!”