by Rosie Lear
Sir Tobias answered the wave, and patted Matthias’ mount..
“Alice and Luke are part of my other work,” he revealed, with a warmth which Matthias envied. He himself should have been married by now, with maybe a son or daughter to delight his father and mother, as Alice and Luke were delighting Sir Tobias and Lady Bridget.
Somehow he must engross himself once again in his school plans, or his new found sense of direction would crumble around him.
Elizabeth had lit a fire, and Matthias was grateful for its glow. The logs Davy had split were spitting and crackling – the sap or resin was still damp and the crackling noise made it impossible for Matthias to relax. He stretched his legs before the fire, and tried to let his mind wander. He was drifting into an uneasy sleep when Davy’s knock at the door startled him awake.
“What is it, Davy?”
“Master – the day did not go well here.”
It was a bald statement which needed further embellishment.
“Come and sit down, Davy.”
Davy sat on the edge of a wooden chair uncomfortably, far away from the fire. He had been with Matthias’ family for all his working life, but he was aware of social differences, and Matthias’ father had never invited closeness, although Davy’d been only a stable lad of twelve then. The age difference between himself and Matthias made no difference to the social gulf between them.
“What went amiss, Davy?” Matthias enquired.
“A stranger came through the village seeking Lydia’s house. He marked it well, but he didn’t call on her – just rode away. I was out at market with Elizabeth, and I heard him ask people where Ben Glover’s house was. I didn’t like the look of him, so I said nothing. It was Walter Meer who pointed out the house to him. Elizabeth was going to speak, but I silenced her – and when he just nodded and rode away without smiling or thanking Walter, I was glad I had remained silent, for it meant he would know us again.”
“What did this stranger look like, Davy?”
“Sullen – not a mannered man, yet well dressed. His speech was more clipped than ours – ours is broad and easy. He had dark hair and a fashionable beard, - not a poor man, I fancy, because his tunic and hose were of good quality cloth, and his riding cloak and hat were trimmed with fur.”
Some inner sense of danger he was not aware he had, prickled at Matthias’ spine.
“Davy, do you think they could be looking for the gold? Perhaps he gave it to Ben in the first place, and is anxious lest it be found and leads to a trail of discovery.”
“I think it may be likely, Master Barton.”
“Where does Lydia sleep?”
“Near the fire in her downstairs room on a truckle, and I expect her daughter now sleeps beside her.”
“Is her mother still with her?”
“Not at night, she returns to her own home before nightfall.”
Matthias made a decision.
“Davy, I’m afraid for Lydia. Will you watch the house with me tonight?”
“Gladly, master,” replied Davy.
It was wisdom which prompted Matthias and Davy to leave Barton Holding before darkness fell. They were both armed with daggers slung from their belts, and both dressed in dark hose and tunics with hooded cloaks. In the absence of Davy owning such a garment, Matthias had remembered his father’s chest, and had loaned Davy his father’s woollen cloak.
Because it was not yet fully dark, the two men were able to walk freely through the village without subterfuge. Lydia’s house stood on the end of a row of similar small dwellings, mainly made from wattle and daub, with simple thatched roofs. The houses here were close together, and the street which ran down the middle was narrow, with a gutter running down the middle where refuse was thrown.
The clouds were dark in the sky as Matthias looked up at the outline of the bare trees which edged this end of the village. He had made no plans beyond watching the house to make sure that no harm came to Lydia. Now he suddenly felt small and rather childish. What did he think he was doing, creeping around at night? Where could they conceal themselves and still be sure of seeing Lydia’s house?
He was filled with a quick rush of depression, but Davy surprisingly turned left opposite the end cottage and Matthew found himself pressed into a doorway.
“This house is empty,” Davy said quietly.
“It lies opposite Lydia’s, so we should be able to see if anyone approaches.”
Cold seeped into Matthias’ very bones as they waited, crushed hard against the door, half sitting on a broken earth step. Few people ventured out after dark at this end of the village. Money didn’t run to excess ale very often in this quarter, nor to warm woollen cloaks against the bitter night wind. Children cried distantly from inside nearby houses, and once they heard voices raised in fierce argument, but apart from that, the darkness and silence was complete. Silence was bleak, cold and sinister. Matthias became too chilled to sleep. His limbs were cramped from being so still, and his ears ached fiercely with the cold. He lost all sense of time – two hours…….maybe three – and he and Davy had not spoken in all that time. Matthias flexed his tortured muscles and prepared to stand, to give his body a chance to recover some feeling, but Davy’s fingers gripped his arm and bade him be still.
They sensed, rather than saw, a shape materialize in the darkness…move slowly round to the side of the end house, holding the wall as he moved, the better to quieten his feet. He seemed to steady himself on the corner of the house.
Matthias could not see what he was doing – there was some fumbling, and for a moment it appeared to be nothing more than a cloaked and cowled figure who had broken all vows of abstinence. Then the figure moved out into the centre of the narrow trackway and slightly out of their vision.
Davy leaned forward to try and see what direction he had taken, when the stillness of the night was broken by a heavy twanging sound, and a fire arrow was shot into the air with deadly accuracy and pierced the thatch of Lydia’s cottage. Davy shouted, and the figure came back into view, picked up his skirted gown and ran, Davy in hot pursuit, towards the open space of the village green.
Davy was gaining on him as they reached the open space of the green, but from the trees a second figure emerged, holding two horses. Davy scarcely had time to think – he saw the second figure drop the reins and draw a bow, and he flung himself to the ground. The arrow zipped over him at some speed and thudded into the ground just feet beyond where Davy lay. He heard the thunder of hooves on the ground and the irregular beat as the horses were turned. He had time to glance to see in which direction they were facing, only to realise in horror that they had turned towards him, and were intending to trample him.
He rolled himself into a ball, wound his arms round his head, terrified of the pain to come. He shut his eyes…….. heard a shout…another shout behind him…the whistle of a missile flying through the air….whinnying of frightened horses…a shouted curse and then felt the thunder and vibration as the horses veered away from him without reaching him and back through the wood, then he heard Matthias shout “Fire! Fire!”
Davy scrambled to his feet, dizzy and trembling from his ordeal, but fearful for Lydia. Those great horses would surely have trampled him to death. Who were these people, - what did they want, and how had they come to be so involved in this tangle of evil intent against innocent people?
The fire arrow had ignited the thatch and it was spreading well. Greedy yellow flames were licking the thatch, biting into the night sky.
Men began to emerge from neighbouring houses, rubbing their eyes, pulling sacks round them to cover their night nakedness – and then suddenly awake to the danger – desperate to stop the fire spreading. Some had water in troughs at the back of their houses ready for morning, and they quickly brought it, slopping it in their hurry to save not Lydia’s – that was burning well now, - but their own. Their primitive houses were tinder dry and flames would take hold so fast, so very fast.
Matthias put a shoulder to Ly
dia’s latched and bolted door. It gave easily, and she was visible in the flickering light of the hungry flames – her night shift too thin to combat the cold outside, and her hair loose and tousled from sleep. She was clutching her little daughter protectively to her breast. Davy grasped her hand.
“Lydia, - it’s me, - Davy, some-one has fired your roof – come!”
“Where shall I go? What shall I do?”
“Bring the babe – there’s no time to lose!”
Her relief at hearing Davy’s voice was palpable. She had feared marauding robbers who would know there was no man in the house.
Matthias picked up the empty cradle in his arms and followed Davy and Lydia out of the burning house. As he left, Matthias saw the worn thatch fluttering down in burning strands to fire the poor interior, which would in turn engulf the wooden structure of the house.
There was a crowd of villagers outside now. Some had spades and were beating at the burning straw; others had water. A little breeze carried the scarlet, glowing sparks into the air, spelling terrible danger for the rest of the row of houses. Matthias thought it looked like a scene from hell itself.
Lydia’s house burned quickly. The house next to it was luckier. Because the alarm had been raised so promptly, the smouldering straws were being extinguished, and although the roof was damp, it was really only Lydia’s house which was past redemption.
Davy drew Lydia to him.
“Come – let’s get away from here.”
He looked at Matthias, who nodded. Lydia’s neighbours were totally absorbed in saving their own houses, and her mother had not yet appeared.
By the time they thought to care for Lydia she had gone with Davy to Master Barton’s house, where Elizabeth gave up her own bed for her.
Matthias ached in every limb. Whatever they had expected that night, it had certainly not been this. Lydia was safe under his roof, with her child; Davy was bruised and shocked; they had been shot at by two men who had tried to kill Lydia and her child, and all parties were dirty beyond belief.
Matthias knew he had to return to Purse Caundle in the morning.
Chapter 7
Davy roused Matthias at daybreak. Matthias noted that Davy was moving stiffly, as if he ached, and that one side of his face was grazed where he had flung himself down on the ground.
He felt stale and tired. He unlocked his cupboard and took out ink and parchment, and listed events, but he stared at what he had written unseeingly. His eyes ached, his head was fuzzy, and his clothes smelled of smoke. The depression of the previous evening had returned. It all looked so dull, so lifeless – even pointless.
He had not felt like this since his return from Italy. He must shake this off – nothing made sense. There seemed no link – no pattern. How would you even go about finding a pattern? And how had he allowed himself to become involved in this? He would go this morning, after he had washed and changed into fresh clothes, and tell Sir Tobias of the new development, and make it clear to him that he, Matthias Barton, had business of his own to attend to. He really couldn’t divert his attention any further away from his chosen course of action.
Having decided on this, he washed and changed and had Davy saddle his horse.
“I’m going to see Sir Tobias, Davy. Lydia is welcome here, but she may prefer to be with her mother. You and Elizabeth are free to do as you wish with her. I cannot turn her away homeless.”
“Thank you, ,” Davy replied.
As he rode away, he reflected on the wisdom of his generosity. Although his house was a family house, he could not help but feel that he would regret Lydia’s presence – a baby crying at all hours, and having to find Lydia some sort of work to do – and she would be taking up room that he might need for his scholars.
He first went to Sherborne, for he remembered that Sir Tobias intended visiting the Abbot again, and Sherborne was a more direct route than Purse Caundle
He hesitated as he entered Sherborne. He couldn’t go again to Thomas Copeland who had his own work to do. Should he go to the Abbey?
He was leading his horse towards the abbey, past the progressing building works, when he chanced across Mistress Fosse. He did not know her well – he had only seen her once, at Mary’s burying. She was talking earnestly to a lad of some twelve or thirteen years, and Matthias deliberately slowed his horse and made as if to pick something from the hooves.
“You are welcome to look at Mary’s room,” she was saying, “But I have cleared it in readiness for a new maid-servant, and I am sure nothing was left behind. She had very few belongings, and her clothes and trinkets have all been returned to your mother.”
TO YOUR MOTHER! This was Mary’s brother – must indeed be the youth who had absented himself to avoid being questioned – or recognized. The pair passed him without a second look, through the Shambles and towards Mistress Fosses’ house.
Thoughtfully Matthias turned his horse and followed at a discreet distance. He tossed the reins to a young boy in the market place, first showing him the coin he would have on his return if he minded the beast – and set out on foot.
They went a fairly short distance into Hound Street. It was now drizzling lightly, and Matthias became aware of his hair gathering a layer of light moisture, and his collar becoming damp – an unpleasant feeling on an equally unpleasant morning, which did nothing to lighten his mood of despair.
Mary’s brother was not long in the house. Mistress Fosse closed the door very firmly, and the youth stood outside irresolutely, looking downcast and disappointed.
Matthias decided to approach him and challenge him – he had nothing to lose, but before he could do so, two monks detached themselves from the corner of the street and paced purposefully towards the boy. He saw them and turned to run; they were too quick for him, and Matthias tried to keep pace with them as naturally as he could, without appearing to follow. The youth was being frog-marched along the cobbles, stumbling every so often.
The long strides and the apparent surprising strength of the two monks made following unobserved very hard, and Matthias reluctantly allowed them to gain space. From their assured physical strength he was pretty sure they must have been the two figures he had seen at Lydia’s home last night – and they clearly wanted something from the boy.
Matthias tried to keep them in sight, but they were pounding hard towards Newland, half running, half dragging their unwilling companion. In the drizzle, now turning to a steadier rain, Matthias was delayed by some ale casks being rolled from the brewers and loaded onto a cart – and when he managed to pass, there was no sign of the three figures.
Matthias stood for several minutes, puzzled by their sudden disappearance. He hadn’t been delayed for more than two or three minutes, but whichever way he turned, there was no trace of the little party.
With the rain now plastering his uncovered head, Matthias trudged wearily back down Hound Street, cut through an alley and came into Long Street, and so into the Market Place.
Traders looked wet and dejected; few maidservants and their mistresses would venture out now unless they had to – men pulled Hessian and rough cloths over themselves to try and protect themselves from the worst of the rain. The boy holding Matthias’ horse was sheltering under the wooden arch of an ale house. Matthias gave him his promised coin, and the ragged arsed child ran off, bare feet splashing through the puddles in the uneven cobbles.
Matthias felt unbearably tired. The rain now streamed from his horse, was soaking into his garments and he had no plans now for any action. He rode dispiritedly towards the Abbey. The masons and their labourers were sheltering – some in the building works under scaffolding, and others making their way into the nave. Matthias rode past, and on a sudden whim, turned his horse into the monastery gates.
It was the duty of the monastery to give comfort to travellers, and he was tired, soaked through and could certainly describe himself as a traveller in need.
He was admitted to the guest hall by the chamberlain monk, whos
e responsibility it was to oversee the hospitality towards strangers, and when his horse had been stabled by a lay brother, he sat by the fire in the guest hall, his clothes steaming. An elderly monk brought him bread and pottage in a trencher, fragrant with herbs and smelling deliciously gamey. The monastery had many lay workers as well as twenty-four monks – in fact they had a whole multitude of servants these days, and their table was well furnished with game, fish from their own stew ponds, poultry from their own farms and lamb from their own flocks.
There was no other person in the guest hall at that time, and Matthias, on a high backed wooden settle, dozed after his disturbed night and enforced walking of the morning.
He became dimly aware that other travellers had joined him…Brother Francis bringing more food for the other guests…..the presence of other people….more logs being fed to the welcome fire. He knew he must move soon. It was not his intention to stay overnight, and he was too tired and it was too late now to ride out to Purse Caundle to see Sir Tobias. His depression had not lifted; he was involved in something too difficult for him to penetrate; he was not a fighting man, although he was fit and young; he was failing himself for not pursuing his decision to open the school within the month – he had wasted too much time on the affairs of other people - and yet he was a man who could not tolerate injustice, despite his overwhelming feeling that life had been less than just to him.
Lydia’s tragedy was unjust; Mary’s death was callous and ruthless – and Sir Tobias had warned against allowing law and order to fall into disrepute.
Men were becoming dissatisfied with their lot and were greedy for more power in their own lives. Tradesmen were finding ways to become rich and call themselves merchants – and men, and women, too, were wanting more from life than they had had in the past. Wasn’t that why he was opening a schoolroom? Tradesmen knew that their sons could better their lives in the future, but they would need to be able to read, to calculate their earnings, and to write. The way forward had to be through education, but education cost money.