Hoodsman: Queens and Widows

by Smith, Skye

  "Take his purse so we can be hanged as footpads. You're such a fool,” she said as she leaned back on her haunches to think. "Load him onto his horse and we will take him with us. If no one claims him, then we take his purse."

  It took both of them to fold Raynar over the saddle, and it was lucky that the beige's sway back was so low. It was only once they began to lead the horse that they realized that it was limping. "Nothing for it but to keep going,” said the wife. "Be a shame to lame the horse, but we can't leave the man here. If another storm hits, that would be same as murder."

  It was near midnight when they found the main highway and there was an inn. It was shut for the night, but they woke a stable hand and for a second night in a row, they slept under a roof for free. Two carters who they disturbed from their free bed helped them to get the man off the horse and lay him out.

  "Gad, he reeks,” said one of the carters.

  "He's been puking regular like,” said the wife, "bloody drunkard.” and then she told of how they had found him.

  "Nothing more we can do in the dark, love,” said her husband. "Leave him be. He'll be right in the morning and he can buy the morning porridge."

  * * * * *

  He wasn't right in the morning. He still slept and would not be woken, and his breath came in harsh spasms. The innkeeper's wife had been sent for, but she did not recognize the man. "Nice clothes, fat purse, and look, a scroll pipe,” she said as she brushed the man's hair back to inspect the wound on his head. "Foreign clothes, must be some nob from Scotland."

  "Why Scotland?” said one of the carters.

  "Cause he keeps whispering Margaret and then Scotland,” she replied. She pulled the man's sword from its sheath "Foreign sword too. Look at the markings on the blade. Some kind of foreign runes.” She pushed herself to her feet. "Well he's not my ward. He didn't pay for the night, so I want nothing to do with him,” she said and turned to go back to the inn.

  "Oye,” said one of the carters, "bring back that purse."

  "Oh aye, and I am supposed to leave it here with you lot? Think I was born stupid?"

  "Listen 'ere,” said one carter. "We are headed to York. That is nearer to the border of Scotland. We don't mind carrying him in our cart, and leading his horse. Unladen the horse's leg has a chance of mending.” The stable man had cleaned, poulticed and wrapped the horse's leg at first light.

  The innkeeper's wife was no fool. "Right then, but you take this man and his wife with you as far as the next town so they can tell all this to the constable there.... just in case you have your own eyes on that purse."

  * * * * *

  The miles drifted by. The couple were happy not to be walking them. The carters were grumpy because they couldn't back out of the offer once it was made. The injured man was made comfortable and the couple sat beside him and had cleaned his face and put some of the stableman's horse poultice on the head wound.

  Neither the carters nor the couple were eager to report anything to any constable, so they never did stop at any town. At the ford of the River Aire, the couple parted company for the wife's sister lived just two miles along the river. They all argued for an hour about how much the couple should be paid from the man's purse for the care they had given him. The purse had been left on the man's belt just in case they were stopped and questioned about him.

  "Half for us, and you can have the other half,” bargained the wife.

  "You deserve something for sure,” said a carter, "but this is a heavy purse. You don't deserve so much."

  "You greedy sods want it all to yourselves,” argued the man.

  "We will take just what he costs in passage and expenses,” replied a carter, a bit shame faced.

  They all stared at each other. Time was passing. Folk were passing and taking an interest now.

  "A quarter,” said a carter.

  "Done,” said the husband and got a swift kick from his wife, but she took the purse, and was about to pour out the silver for splitting when the carter stopped her.

  "Not in the view of the entire highway,” the carter said, "by the size and weight there are about two dozen coins but they will be a mix of silver and copper. Pour out the first six, and they are yours."

  "Owe,” she said, "there's not just coins. Something pricked me.” and with a flourish, she dropped an arrow point on the wagon bed, and hid that she had nine coins in her hand and then pulled her husband along and waved goodbye.

  The two carters looked at the strange arrow point. "That's one of John's, int it.” They both sighed. They had been waiting for the man to die so that they could claim his things. Now they had to save his life.

  * * * * *

  "Are you sure she is a healer. She just looks like any old widow to me,” said one carter after they had lifted the injured man into the mean hut and laid him carefully on the only pallet.

  "Shhh,” the other said. "Ever since so many dark haired babies were stillborn, the priests have been burning midwives and healers. Never call a woman that. Especially not a woman as homely as this widow."

  The good widow ignored their whispers. She was slowly and carefully taking the mans clothes off so she could check for wounds. "You say this man fell off his horse,” she asked.

  "That's what we were told."

  "Bull shit. Look at the bruising. This man has been beaten, and beaten in a way that is hidden. Look here. They kept hitting him here with something round and heavy to try and split his organs without breaking the skin."

  "I don't think the couple that found him would have done that,” said one carter, "They seemed nice enough. Besides, why would someone beat him, leave him for dead, yet leave a purse and a horse and saddle."

  "You did not find this other purse then. She pulled a small purse from an inside pocket of the man's jerkin. She untied it and poured it onto the pallet. "Weeping Freyja, now there is trouble.” A dozen small golden coins glinted in a patch of sunlight. "Get caught by a Norman with those, and they'd stretch your neck good and proper. Dress him and get him out of here."

  "No woman. Put the purse back in the pocket and then you do what you can for him."

  "What's he to you? I thought you were just carrying him to York,” asked the widow, then she sighed and pulled a stopper out of the vinegar jar and wetted a scrap of linen with it to cleanse the wound and the bruises.

  "Never you mind, woman, let's just say that we want him to get well and give us a reward. As a corpse he will cause us endless problems."

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  The Hoodsman - Queens and Widows by Skye Smith

  Chapter 9 - In a nun's cart to Dun Holm (Durham) in April 1079

  The carters did not enter York by the southern gate, but circled the walls and stopped at a stable outside the northern gate. While one carter went by foot into the city to arrange for the delivery of their load, the other stayed close to the cart and the injured man, and asked at every cart heading north if any had room for the injured man. Eventually he was told that within the hour a long procession of carts would be leaving for Dun Holm and it included clerics and nuns.

  "Are the nuns spoiled rich women, or are they working nuns?” he asked.

  The other carter laughed at him. "Rich nuns have softer places to live than Dun Holm. These are joining the bishop prince there to care for the wounded from all the Scottish raids. You can answer that question just by looking at their hands. You can always tell a useless tit by the length of her nails."

  When a cart with nuns walking beside it pulled by, the carter walked beside them and told them of the injured man. The nun who seemed to be in charge came to see the man for herself, and meanwhile had the cart pull out of the procession. As soon as she saw the fineness of the wool cloak she began to nod her head. When she was told that the man was thought to have been in an accident but had terrible bruises as if he had been beaten, she became more interested. When she finished perusing the contents of the scroll pipe she decided.

  "Yes we will
take him. From the scrolls he is the new steward for Siward's estates north of Dun Holm. When we reach Dun Holm, God will he survives, we will send to those estates."

  A group of carter's carried the injured man from cart to cart. When all the nuns were gathered looking at the man, for he was a handsome man despite the trickle of puke in the corner of his mouth, the carter swore them to a secret. This tactic gained him the ire of the nun in charge, but the carter did not care so long as it protected this man's gold. "He has a fat purse of silver on his belt and a purse of gold under his shoulder. Such wealth was obviously meant for a church somewhere. Swear that you will keep his wealth a secret."

  The younger nuns tittered and vowed it so. The older ones gave him a look that could bite a man in half, but then also made the vow.

  Two hours later his partner emerged through the city gate and stumbled up to him. "Well there was no use hurrying. That procession was blockin' the gate. So I stopped and hoisted a few pots. Good ale in York.” He stumbled around to the back of the cart and looked at the empty space where their passenger had been, then he sat down and moaned. "He regained 'is senses and up and walked away, and never got to tell me a thank you,” he looked at his partner. "Did he leave us a reward, or at least the cost of passage?"

  "I took ten coins, here are your five,” his partner said holding some coins out. "He didn't walk away. Some nuns agreed to take him to Dun Holm. They read one of the scrolls, and guess what, he is the new steward for some estates up north."

  "Well, come on then. Let's deliver this load. Then we have some explaining to do at the Scarlet Man. I wus talking, like, to one of the sisters that runs it, and she offered to give the man a bed."

  "Doesn't sound like any innkeep I've ever met. They int in the habit of giving beds."

  "Well, you know, the Scarlet is run by Wylie's sisters, so I sort of told her about John's point. Wylie carries one too. I suppose she wanted to make sure it weren't Wylie."

  "Did you tell her it wasn't."

  "Well not in so many words. I thought maybe we would be offered beds too."

  "Which sister was it?"

  The man held his hands out like he was cupping breasts, "You know, what's her name, the friendly one.” He shrugged his shoulders, "oh well, perhaps we will be offered some friendliness just for taking care of him."

  * * * * *

  "Can you hear me,” said the nun. She wiped the puke from his lips and looked over her shoulder at the nun behind her. "This man needs salty broth. Those idiot carters have not been keeping him watered.” She turned back to the man. His eyes were open, but they did not seem to be seeing. "If you can hear me move something. A finger, and eyelid, a lip, anything.

  His eyelids blinked twice.

  "You have been badly beaten. You have a small graze on your head, but everything else is just bruises. Terrible bruises. But you have a fever as if you had a deep wound."

  He eyelids blinked twice. He tried to voice some words. She bent close to his lips, and was tempted to kiss them. Instead she turned her ear to them. "broth, salts” he said and then closed his eyes.

  "I was right. He has asked for salty broth."

  "No, sister," said the nun on the other side of the man. "You were speaking English, and so his response would have been. He did not say broth with salt. It was plural, and besides, in English he would have said salty broth. He said salts, with an s. Broth and salts."

  "You mean mineral salts. But that would purge him."

  "Perhaps that is what he wants."

  * * * * *

  They had a terrible night in a cart with a man who was purging himself from all holes. It was messy, smelly, and foul. They gave him only one dose of salts, but then kept him watered with endless sips of broth. When he stopped purging, his fever broke.

  "No more blood in his stool,” said the youngest nun who had been given the slop bucket duties. She jumped up and twisted and landed sitting on the edge of the cart.

  "Such dancing is unseemly,” said the older nun enviously. She had long ago gone to fat through lack of hard field work, and too much feed.

  The old one turned to her patient and asked, "So who is this Margaret that you cry to in your dreams?"

  The man lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the sun, weak though the sun was, "She is the Queen of Scotland and I am her man."

  "Shhh, don't say such things. The people hereabouts have been routed by the Scots for too many years. Even now they say that Malcolm is moving south with an army. Army, pah, raiders. They have no interest in this land. They want animals and human animals. If one of the menfolk hear you say you are their man, all our healing will be for naught. You will have a quick and nasty end."

  "But Margaret is good. She spreads the words of your desert god across her kingdom. She builds priories and nunneries to help the folk."

  "Be quiet. Your blasphemy makes it worse,” but then she laughed at the man's grimace. She liked this strangely quiet man. She had nursed him now for but four days, and they were approaching Dun Holm, and he was now mending quickly.

  Yesterday he had dictated three very short letters to her which she had neatly folded and addressed. They all said that he had been beaten by assassins, but he was mending now and in hiding, and would return to Sheffield as soon as he could ride.

  One was addressed to the Widow Moragh who ran the Blue Boar inn in Sheffield where he had been renting her best room. Anyone looking for him would ask there first. The second was addressed to Wylie's sister at the Scarlet Man inn in York, who would pass the message on to Wylie in London using carters. The third was addressed to Judith of Huntingdon. This one he signed personally and underlined his signature with crosses.

  Today, for three hours, each time a cart passed them headed south, Raynar asked if it had metal hubs on it's wheels. Finally the answer was yes. The nuns hailed the carter and brought him to visit Raynar.

  Raynar greeted the man weakly and then passed him the letters and told the man where they were to be delivered to. Since most carters read little, he had marked the letters with a code. The one to the Blue Boar had a drawing of a pig. The one to the Scarlet Man had a stick man. The one to Huntingdon had a bow and arrow.

  The man said he would pass them along and looked at Raynar expectantly. Raynar passed him a silver coin, and then said "I would give you gold, but you would end up in chains.” The carter smiled widely and tipped his hat and gave him a knowing wink. The use of the words gold and chain in a jest was a recognition code between hoodsmen.

  Raynar felt much better after the letters were on their way. His folk would still worry, but at least they would know that he was alive and that there were assassins about. He laid back exhausted, and the older nun hovered about him with more broth and now fermented sheep’s milk as well.

  She was enjoying being his nurse. Of course, her nursing had followed his own instructions, but she could not deny that she had learned more about healing in four days with him, than in the last four years in a church run hospital. Each time he was strong enough to speak she would ask questions.

  "So the start of your healing was the salts, the purge. I do not understand why?” she said in French.

  Raynar was reclined with his eyes closed to the brightness of the day. "The men who beat me were professional assassins. They beat the organs below my waist with some kind of weapon, perhaps just a stone, and then left me for my organs to kill me. I would have died but for the purge, for the organs could not heal themselves because of the build up of poisonous fluids from the beating. The purge cleaned the organs of poison, and then they could begin to heal.” he licked his lips and she dampened them with broth, and he rested before speaking again.

  "It is always a risk to purge a sick man, so never do it twice. The first time will mend him or kill him. The second time will surely kill him. Have you ever thrown salts into vinegar? No, well next time you have them both, try it with a little vinegar and a few salts. The salts combine with the vinegar and produce gasses that blow
bubbles.

  There is good vinegar and bad vinegar. Most animal and plant poisons are types of bad vinegar, and sometimes very strong. If you touch your tongue to them they do not taste sour like vinegar, but bitter because they are so strong. Some can kill you from one touch to the tongue, so be careful. When you purge with salts, the poisons combine with the salts and flow out of the body. It is the same for cleansing wounds or on skin fungus or with odors under the arms. Rub a little of the salts on them and then wash them, and the poisons are washed away with the salts.” he held up his hand but he nun misread his signal for rest and instead held his hand. He slept in any case.

  He opened his eyes and she was still there. She looked like a pig with her piggy snout and piggy eyes, and she made pig noises when she ate, but her smile was loving and caring, so long as she kept her lips closed over her tusks. She asked him, "Do you ever bleed a patient, for that is what a physician would have told us to do with you."

  "The only purpose of bleeding in healing is to help to cleanse the wound that is doing the bleeding. Once the wound is clean, the bleeding should be stopped. Simply pressing on the wound with clean linen is often enough. Blood is too precious within the body to waste it in a physician's cup.” He closed his eyes again and dozed.

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  The Hoodsman - Queens and Widows by Skye Smith

  Chapter 10 - Scottish raiders south of Dun Holm in April 1079

  He woke with a pain searing through his back like he had been shot. He tried to keep himself from shaking so hard, and then he realized that it was the cart that was shaking. It was moving much too fast for this ruin of a Roman street and was swinging back and forth and was being launched up and then crashed down with every stone or pot hole that the wheels hit.

  Now he could hear screaming. The high pitch of women's screams. The low pitch of men's. The cart stopped abruptly and he was thrown forward with everything else in the cart. He pushed himself to almost sitting so that he could see out over the sides of the cart. There was a pitched battle around him and the men of the procession had no chance against the fury of battle axes and long heavy swords of the attackers. Almost at once they put down their weapons and kneeled on the ground in surrender.