The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  After so many hours in the saddle he straightened painfully and made for the hall to find the landlord.

  ‘A bed and bread – and a sup of ale will see me content.’

  The beefy leather-aproned innkeeper gave him a brief glance, then grunted, ‘B’ horse?’

  Assured that this was Jared’s transport and therefore he could not be a penniless itinerant, the man named the price. ‘A silver penny the bed, three ha’pence the meal and it’ll be tuppence the horse. Servant?’

  ‘Not yet come,’ Jared said loftily.

  It was no trivial amount but there was no choice – he had no desire to start his town life in one of the hostelries he remembered from his pilgrim days.

  The hall was smoky and smelt of concentrated humanity and stale food, the trestle tables alive with travellers taking their pottage and quaffing ale.

  Jared saw, however, that the strewn rushes were not unduly caked with mould and dung and even had traces of fleabane and hyssop to alleviate the stinks. It would do.

  That night he lay awake, unused to town noises: the barking of dogs, snores of dozens of others, the grind of cartwheels and the carousing of late arrivals. How unlike the stillness of Hurnwych, where the soft hooting of an owl in Wolfscote Forest could easily be heard floating on the night air.

  Above all was the daunting thought that he was now entirely alone in what lay ahead – had he done the right thing by cutting all ties with his past and heading out into the unknown?

  He’d left his son stricken and tearful with Osbert but also with half the proceedings from the buy-out, and a vague promise to return one day to see how he was going. It had torn him to leave but he knew he wasn’t the kind of father Daw needed.

  Perkyn was grateful to continue as a forge-hand and the little house was now his.

  For himself, he now had a well-filled purse of silver, but this was all he had to see him set up in his trade. And it was already beginning to drain.

  He’d come to Coventry for one very good reason: a cousin of his, Geoffrey Barnwell, had been born in Hurnwych and left to seek his fortune in the city. He’d gone when Jared was a small child but his father had later spoken of his success as a maker of candlesticks. All he had to do was find him to get his advice and protection.

  Given his varied experience in all kinds of blacksmithing there shouldn’t be much difficulty finding a comfortable niche, but it was the outlay needed before he’d made a name that was the chanciest thing.

  He set off early in the morning to find his relative, wearing his favourite russet tunic with a hood that hung down ending in a short liripipe, green hose and calf-length boots. His dark-brown felt hat with a saucy point had a twinkling sun motif brooch and he felt ready to face whatever the day would bring.

  The innkeeper hadn’t been much help, gruffly pointing out that there wouldn’t be more than half a hundred candlestick makers in Coventry. He did add that if he cared to visit Bishopsgate he would find most of them there together and pointed out how to get there.

  Jared stepped out down the road, past raucous market stalls and the fronts of craft shops, pushing through crowds, careful to guard against robbers and cutpurses, as he’d learnt the hard way in cities across the Levant.

  Pie stalls, mercers, cobblers – it went on and on in a tumultuous din as he made his way along muddy streets, passages and alleys. It was over an hour before he’d found the candlestick makers and their characteristic billowing reek of tallow.

  But there he was told that there was most definitely no Geoffrey Barnwell in their number.

  This was a sad blow. Without anyone to speak for him his entry into the closed world of the skilled tradesman would be hard indeed.

  CHAPTER 49

  Jared couldn’t let it rest. The man could have moved elsewhere, who knew – he had to find someone who could give him tidings of his kinsman.

  It took the rest of the afternoon to come upon one who did. An old tally-clerk told him that Geoffrey had done well for himself and set up as a merchant, no longer to live among the noisome workings. Not only that, although it was many years ago, his books would show where he’d removed to.

  At last!

  With hope renewed Jared set out the next day. The merchants lived in the Chauntry, quite another quarter, and considerably better off. Their houses were of black post and beam and handsome stone infill, some with three or four angular storeys jutting out. The street was clean, the odours subdued. It was another existence.

  As he paced along he became aware that he was no longer the well-dressed visitor but a stranger come to town. The fashion here was of bright colour, cote and doublet, and his practical country garb marked him out as an outsider.

  The houses now were of quality and he rehearsed the words he would say when facing Barnwell, whom he’d not seen since he was a small boy.

  Here it was: a four-storey house on the corner of the Whitefriars highway and Cheaping Lane, with a single high watchtower.

  He rapped respectfully with the wrought-iron knocker, which he noted was of appreciable workmanship.

  ‘Jared of Hurnwych to call upon Master Geoffrey Barnwell,’ he told the smartly attired servant who answered.

  ‘Who sent you?’ he demanded suspiciously.

  ‘I’m his kinsman,’ retorted Jared, ‘who desires to be remembered to him.’

  He was allowed in, to stand irresolute in an ornamented anteroom that could well serve in a manor house. To one side was a door firmly closed and on the other a staircase leading up to the next floor. There was no question, he was out of his depth in these surroundings.

  The servant told him to wait and left.

  A short time later a lady appeared at the top of the stairs and looked sharply down at him.

  ‘Why do you seek Master Barnwell, fellow?’

  Strong-featured and imperious, she was a few years older than he.

  ‘I’m Jared, his cousin of Hurnwych Green, and beg to be made known to him again,’ he said stiffly. ‘Um, my lady,’ he added, feeling intimidated.

  She considered him at length. ‘You are your father’s …’

  ‘Yes, m’ lady.’

  ‘Come!’ she commanded and turned away out of sight.

  Feeling every bit a country bumpkin Jared obediently went up the steep stairs and emerged on to the second floor – the main hall. A fire blazed on one side and the room was richly decorated with two portraits and embroidered hangings over the dark-stained walls, the centrepiece a long polished table.

  Two imposing upright chairs were at the end of the room and she gracefully sat in one but indicated he should take the bench.

  ‘How goes Hurnwych Green these days, Master Jared? Is the new cathedral yet built?’

  ‘Cathedral?’ he asked, confused. ‘The village has no such.’

  ‘Then what does it have?’

  ‘Why, St Mary’s with Father Bertrand. No cathedral, m’ lady.’

  Her appearance was more striking than beautiful, her blood-red surcoat in faultless taste.

  ‘And the lord of the manor – I quite forget, who is it?’

  ‘It was Sir Robert le Warde who lately died and—’

  ‘Quite. So I’m to conclude that you do indeed come from Hurnwych.’

  She considered for a moment, then said in a kinder tone, ‘You’ve had a long journey – but I’m dismayed to tell you it has been in vain.’

  ‘In vain?’ he said, with a sinking feeling.

  ‘Yes. My name is Rosamunde and I am … his widow.’

  It hit him like a blow. It was so unfair: no protector, no one to speak for him or even to give advice in the face of the hostile town guilds. It was going to be a hard road ahead.

  She saw him wilt and went on softly, ‘Do believe I’m sorry you had to hear it from me. Did you know him well?’

  ‘Only as a boy.’

  The quicker he was out of here and looking for some sort of refuge and—

  ‘Then it seems you came for some other purpose.
’

  There was no reason not to admit to his real intention, even if this high merchant lady would now look down on him.

  ‘Yes, m’ lady. I … I’m a blacksmith and look to setting up in Coventry and did hope that Master Geoffrey might speak for me.’

  To his surprise she nodded slowly and said kindly, ‘As is a noble craft and calling. You were right, Geoffrey would have done what he could, but I fear you will have much to do before the guild allows you to set up in trade. Are you accounted a master of your skill?’

  ‘I’m in a fair way of knowing more than most, I’m told,’ he replied defiantly.

  ‘As a village blacksmith?’ she chided gently.

  He reddened and said curtly, ‘My experiences are many and I do not forget any lessons I learn.’

  She stood up and turned to him with a smile, her hands clasped together. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. But I’m forgetting myself. Do you take wine?’

  He’d never had a chance to taste wine in his life but stoutly admitted that he did.

  A servant was called and he found himself with a goblet of red wine and promoted to the second chair.

  ‘I’ve a fancy there’s more about you than it appears,’ she said, curious. ‘Have you lived in Hurnwych all your days?’

  The wine was soft and produced a glow quite different to a hearty ale.

  ‘Not all my years, m’ lady.’

  ‘I thought not. You have the look of a man of some seasoning. Have you ever travelled?’

  The wine was going far to settle his discomfort at his surroundings.

  ‘Far. To the land of the Mongols and Saracens.’

  ‘By the Rood and this must be a tale worth hearing.’ She noticed his glass and replenished it. ‘Do tell me about it.’

  Gratified by her interest he told briefly of how, his wife taken from him, he’d embarked on a pilgrimage, which had ended in his being sold into slavery: yet gaining much by his trial before finding freedom in Cilicia.

  ‘No doubt life in the village is a mite humble after such,’ she said with a shrewd look.

  ‘’Tis why I’m come to town, to seek my fortune,’ he said shortly, and finished his glass. ‘I do thank you for your kindness and must leave to find it.’ He stood up and gave an awkward bow.

  ‘Wait!’ She rose and faced him. ‘You came to see my husband. He cannot help you, but I can. It will be hard to find a situation in the city – at least I can offer lodgings while you do.’

  Jared blushed at her generosity. ‘I thank you, my lady.’

  CHAPTER 50

  It was a small but clean room next to the kitchen and out of the way. With its dresser and jug of water, a room better by far than he’d stayed in since Tabriz, he acknowledged with a twinge. He ate with the servants who seemed satisfied that he was some sort of distant relation and told him with relish just what he’d landed into.

  The lady Rosamunde came from a good family and had married the fast-rising merchant Barnwell after he had made venture into wool and from there the cloth industry. She was quick and intelligent and rapidly made herself indispensable in his affairs.

  When he’d been suddenly carried away of a fever three years ago she’d refused to be put aside, and as his widow, had grasped the reins as femme sole, in her own right. She had succeeded well, taking her cloth interests to the Continent, trading with the Hansa ports in English dunster broadcloth for Dutch and German linen and was now a respected and moneyed Coventry merchant.

  No, she’d shown no interest in remarrying, even if in her position she could command attention from knights and aldermen both. And no, she had no issue and lived essentially alone in this mansion, running a tight and no-nonsense household.

  How long could he expect to …?

  A brisk pace in finding a situation would, it seemed, be advisable.

  He lost no time in setting out the next day for the Guildhall where he found the name and place of business of the Prime Warden of the Worshipful Company of Blacksmiths. This was not far and soon he was making himself known.

  ‘Hurnwych Green? Never heard of it,’ the corpulent official said over his ale, bought for him by Jared. ‘Not as if it’ll get you anywhere.’

  He drained his pot and held it out significantly.

  ‘All I want is a start, a pitch with a forge and—’

  ‘Can’t be done. We’re a close crew here in Coventry, don’t hold with outsiders rushing in and taking our bread. And how do we know you’re even proper apprenticed? We’d be sad loons to let a shyster set up under our name!’

  Jared burnt but this was not the time to argue. Guilds controlled the right to trade in a city, their word alone allowing a tradesman to set out his wares. In a way it was reasonable, for bad workmanship would bring the reputation of the whole city into question, and more importantly, direct jurisdiction ensured that none would dare undercut the going working rate for all.

  ‘Then how do I get started?’ he asked bitterly.

  He’d noticed that the smithies were all set back from the market proper, feeding their products directly into the mass of shops and stalls. Here there’d be for a certainty a cosy arrangement in place that he could never get around without the right connections.

  ‘Well now, and this is your problem. We can see you as a forge-hand straight off, even a journeyman if the company agrees on it, but setting up on your own, well, needs you to be a master blacksmith with a masterpiece accepted by us and such. Can’t see that happening quick, can you?’

  He knew what was going on and seethed. A fat bribe would devour his start-up money and leave him worse off than before.

  Jared sat in dejection in his room, only a guttering rush light for company.

  Start from the bottom and see it through? He was not young and most his age had settled down well before and this would take years. Yet he had to do something.

  Not even a jobbing blacksmith was going to be possible – what else was?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a page. ‘Mistress wants to see you,’ he piped.

  Rosamunde was in her chair in the upper room and smiled to see him enter. ‘May I know how the day went for you, Master Jared?’

  He pulled himself together. ‘Today, not so well m’ lady,’ he said off-handedly.

  ‘Oh? I’m grieved to hear it.’

  ‘The guilds. They won’t have an outsider lay out for a smithy.’

  ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘That swag-bellied tosspot of a warden, he knew the others wouldn’t take me on without they have his say,’ he added bitterly.

  She said nothing so he ended baldly, ‘I’ll not be able to set up a forge as I wanted, so must think again about coming to town.’

  ‘You’re a bright sort of man, I should think you’ll soon find a way to better yourself here in Coventry. Meanwhile, do feel able to remain in your lodgings as you need to.’

  ‘I thank you, m’ lady,’ he said sincerely.

  ‘And as we’re kin of a sort, Rosamunde would be pleasing to me.’

  Her widening smile added a soft beauty to her appearance that startled him.

  ‘As you desire, um, Rosamunde.’

  ‘If you are at liberty tonight, I would take it kindly should you sup with me, Jared.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’d like to know more of you, your travels and adventures. And to be truthful, it would be pleasant to have company that isn’t concerned with trade and books of account.’

  He came at the appointed hour to see the table set for two.

  She entered at the same time, her wimple removed, her auburn hair fetchingly plaited and doubled over her ears.

  ‘Wine? I think you’d like this Rhenish, new landed.’ It was a pale wine, quite unlike the previous and no less appealing.

  She put the jug down and looked at him with a clear interest. ‘Now do tell me. To be a slave of the Moors, what must you have suffered?’

  Under the influence of the wine and her insistence he opened up. Instea
d of the bare facts of before he went into details he knew would intrigue – the foods, exotic clothing, veiled faces, singular religious rituals.

  As the dishes were brought he told of the hard desert landscapes, walled cities, the ruthless efficiency and merciless behaviour in battle of the Mongols. He spoke too of the beauty and remoteness of Tabriz; rose-petal salve after bathing, a pomegranate sherbet in the heat of the day, the savour of roast goat and herbs, but tactfully leaving out any mention of Kadrİye.

  She was entranced, listening dreamily as with more wine he grew bolder, weaving a spell of the oriental world that she would never know.

  The dishes were cleared away but Rosamunde showed no signs of wanting him to leave. Instead she said, ‘You’ve been to lands far beyond those seen by the common pilgrim and now you’ve come back to England. Are you not unsettled, restless with your lot? Mayhap this is what drove you out of Hurnwych.’

  He smiled sadly. ‘It did, I do confess it.’

  ‘And I think there’s more to it than that,’ she said shrewdly, eyeing him. ‘There’s something that’s inside you, driving you on. I can tell, I know much of men from my daily affairs.’

  It stopped him short. She would not have achieved so as a merchant without a very astute and perceptive mastery of human nature. She must have seen something of what his vision had done to his soul, the wrenching abandoning of it and—

  ‘Rosamunde – how would you feel if you knew you were the only one with a secret, a wonderful and scaresome secret that could shake the world but you can’t do anything with it?’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘If you have such a one, you have only two choices. You live with it inside you for ever or … you share it with someone who may be able to understand.’

  To share the vision! To share the burden of knowing, of helplessness.