by Ian Mortimer
‘There’s a fireplace here,’ I tell William.
‘The new master no doubt wants to save his fine clothes from the smoke. I don’t blame him.’
I move to the right, towards where Master Ley’s great window was. The wall between the fireplace and the window is not stone but smoother, like plasterwork. I feel a recess and boards, which are shutters over the inside of the window. I can just see chinks of grey light through the cracks.
I move further to my right, feeling my way. On the far side of the window there is a tall piece of wooden furniture – about the same height as me. It has a pattern carved on the front. Beyond that I feel more wood. It seems to be a huge piece of furniture, taller than me, carved in large square panels, with patterns of ribbing down the middle of each one. Then I realise, from its solidity and size, that it is not a piece of furniture at all but a wall covering. The whole wall is covered in panels of wood.
The next thing I feel is a thigh-height piece of furniture. It is overlaid with a very thick woollen fabric, far thicker and heavier than something you would wear. Underneath is a chest of some sort, with a lock at the front. Beyond that I feel a door in the panelling, with a latch, then more wood panelling, and, at the corner of the room, something that feels like a stiffened blanket hanging down. My fingers note the patches of smoothness on its rough surface. It is a painted cloth. It runs the full length of the hall, except for where it is cut around a doorway, halfway along.
I move back to the table in the middle of the room. There is stirring elsewhere in the house. ‘We’d better be setting off,’ I say. But no sooner have I spoken the words than I hear footsteps on the flagstones outside the door.
A girl enters, carrying a candle. I remain motionless beside the table. She does not immediately see either of us but goes to the shutters, unlatches a large metal bar on the inside and swings them open. She blows out her candle.
Outside, I can see the roofs of tall dark houses. I can see too that this room is not a hall open to the rafters any longer; it has a plastered ceiling, only a couple of feet above my head. There is clear glass in the window: a line of four lights, divided by three carved granite mullions, filled with diamond-shaped quarrels of glass. I never would have imagined a house in Moreton could have glazed windows. Indeed, I am so amazed that I forget where I am and take a step closer to make sure my eyes are not deceiving me.
The girl screams. At first it is an inarticulate yell of shock but then, as William jumps to his feet and I start to move towards her to reassure her that we mean no harm, she starts shouting.
‘Master Hodge! Master Hodge! There are foreigners in the parlour!’
‘How do we get out of here?’ William says, picking up my old travelling sack and thrusting it into my hands.
We are too late. A door in the panelling at the far end of the room opens suddenly and a squat, muscular man enters, carrying another candle. He has dark, bushy eyebrows and is clean-shaven, wearing a soft-looking black cap. His wide shoulders are made to look even broader by the padded shoulder pieces of the tunic he is wearing under his mantle. His hosen are of fine white cloth. The knife sheath at his belt is gilt and has a jewel set in it.
‘By God’s wounds, what do you call this? Dolbear! Dolbear, send for the constables. Bowden! Scott! Bring all the men down.’ As he speaks he sets the candle on the table and strides across to the fireplace. He pulls down a long weapon from the wall above it that looks like a combination of an axe and a spear. There is another such weapon mounted there but I dare not move towards it. He holds it threateningly. There is the sound of people descending a staircase hurriedly. Four more men appear: two hold thin-bladed swords, one a bow with an arrow loosely notched in it; the fourth what seems to be a long hollow stick with metal pieces attached to it at one end. That too must be a weapon of some sort – he is holding it in a threatening way.
Then I realise. It is a gonne.
William raises his hands. ‘We mean no harm. We’ve taken nothing.’
I set my bag down and raise my hands also.
‘Search them,’ commands the householder.
One man goes behind me and pushes me up against the wall with my arm behind my back, forcing it upwards past my shoulder blade. Another starts feeling my clothes. After they have satisfied themselves that there is nothing concealed about my person except my eating knife, they search William. One picks up my sack and empties its contents on the stone floor. He is an unpleasant-looking fellow, with a jutting, unshaven chin and a cut on the side of his face, just below his eye. Solemnly, he pulls the silver crucifix with the amber rosary out of the pile of my possessions, and holds it up for all to see.
‘Where did you obtain that?’ demands the householder.
I turn to see what he means, keeping my hands high. ‘I was given it. By the mother of a boy whom I helped when he was ill.’ Their faces disturb me, so I add, ‘We observe the law of the Holy Father in Rome.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Exeter. I am a mason.’
‘There’s money here, and chisels and other tools,’ confirms the unpleasant-looking man, standing up and placing the crucifix on the table and lifting up my purse.
‘Master Hodge,’ says William. ‘We were only looking for shelter.’
‘How did you enter this house?’
‘Master Ley let us in,’ William replies.
‘I have never heard the name. You’ve no right to be here. Neither had anyone the right to admit you.’
‘Sire, this is a misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘We’ve money of our own. Regard our coins – they are from a distant land. I know we appear shabby, and in old clothes, but we are travellers. Pray, let us take our possessions and be on our way.’
‘It does not matter that you’ve taken nothing. You would have stolen in due course. You were stopped in time. And if not, then why are you here? Spying on our worship?’
‘We did not housebreak,’ William pleads. ‘And we are not spies.’
‘Look over the building,’ I say. ‘See if there is a window broken or a lock forced. Is there a drawbar on the front door? Then if it has been withdrawn this morning, it was by your men, not by us. Check every piece of glass.’
‘If this were so, it would be witchcraft, would it not?’ says one of the men bearing a sword.
Master Hodge raises his hand. ‘Bowden and Scott, search the house. Check every door and casement.’
The two men leave the room. I hear the timbers creak as they walk around the house.
One of the men who remains says, ‘I fear they are guilty witches, Master Hodge. They are wearing strange clothes. And their voices are strange too, like none from around these parts. Surely they are here through witchcraft.’
All the men are staring at me as if I have two heads. ‘I’ve never heard of folk using sorcery to break into a house,’ I say. ‘I know that men will go to a sorcerer or a wise woman if they’ve lost something, like a ring or a seal. But appearing out of thin air in someone’s house? That is beyond witchcraft.’
Master Hodge is still holding the long weapon. He raises the sharp point towards my face. ‘Do you not know the king’s law? All those guilty of sorcery should be hanged.’
‘It cannot be evil to use magic to find things,’ I repeat. ‘If you lose something of your own, and then you find it, what could be evil about that? It’s no more evil than believing in the Holy Catholic Church.’ I lower my hands, step forward, and pick up the crucifix from the table. ‘Is this evil? God can work miracles: are you going to hang Him?’
‘You are bold, Roman,’ says Master Hodge, withdrawing his long-handled weapon. ‘There are houses in England where you would hang for what you have just said.’
Something has given me a sudden respectability. I say nothing, hearing the returning footsteps of Hodge’s men who have been checking the house.
‘There’s no sign of any breakin,’ one of them says.
Master Hodge hands his weapon to one of his men. He step
s closer and looks me in the eye. ‘I do not know whether you are conjurers or not, but I do not want my house cursed. Nor do I want it searched for those who cling to the old religion. I do not know who let you in. But if I send you to trial in Exeter, I have no doubt that you will use the same magic as you used to get in here to evade justice. So go, leave this town quickly, and never return.’
There is a strange silence as everyone watches me gathering up my possessions and replacing them in my old sack. I sling it over my shoulder and we walk towards the door. As we step outside into the light of a misty morning, it feels as if we have escaped from a prison.
We do not speak as we walk past the new houses in the market square. We avoid the gaze of people outside in the street. Only when we get to the church does William speak. ‘They rebuilt it then.’
The church indeed has been rebuilt. I wonder briefly if Master Ley paid for it himself or whether the canon precentor and the parishioners helped him.
I look up at Hingston Rocks, partly shrouded in mist. ‘Why do you think he let us go?’
‘His manner changed when you held that crucifix aloft.’
‘He said men would hang in some houses in England for saying what I said.’
‘And he called it the old religion . . . Do you think that English men are no longer Christians?’
‘Look at the church,’ I reply. ‘That new work tells me that the word of the Lord is as strong as ever in these parts. Besides, if he had been a Mohammedan, he surely would have slaughtered us when he saw the cross.’
William looks back at the town. ‘In Christ’s name, this is a truly disquieting time, when we do not know what people believe. We don’t know what the law says either. Apparently there’s now a law against asking sorcerers to help find things. What else is unlawful? Drinking ale? Eating beef? Kissing women?’
‘We need food and new clothing,’ I say. ‘We should walk to Chagford.’
‘Is it market day there?’
‘No. Thursday is market day in Chagford.’
‘How do you know it isn’t Thursday today?’
‘Our last day was a Sunday. Every year that passes has three hundred and sixty-five days in it, not counting leap years. If there were only three hundred and sixty-four days in a year, the first day every year would fall on the same day. But as things are, and saving leap years for the present, each year starts one day later, so if the first year starts on a Monday, the second’ll be on a Tuesday, and so forth. Thus the ninety-ninth year will start ninety-nine days later, or rather one day, as ninety-eight is divisible by seven . . .’
‘You’ve lost me already.’
‘Trust me.’
‘I do.’
‘Let us go to Chagford.’
Walking down the rough muddy lane, we come up behind a countryman riding a fine horse. He seems very much at ease with himself, sitting astride the beast with his chest out, wearing his cap at a jaunty angle, his shoulders broad to the morning. I cannot help noticing, however, that he is riding very slowly even though, at fourteen hands or so, his horse is taller than most of the warhorses of our day.
‘Friend, good day,’ I say. ‘Is she ill, your mount?’
‘Good day, good fellows. No, she’s not ill. It’s that I’m in no hurry, that’s all.’ He glances down at us. ‘What brings you to Moretonhampstead?’
‘Moreton what?’
‘Moretonhampstead,’ he repeats.
‘Since when has it been called that?’
‘As long as I remember. I suppose you’re Master Periam’s men?’
‘No. Just travellers. And you?
‘Tom Brimblecombe, at your service.’
‘Are you going to Chagford?’
‘Taking this horse to Plymouth. She’s off to join the Duke of Norfolk’s men, in Boulogne.’
‘The war in France?’
‘If you call it a war. Apart from Boulogne, there’s only Calais left to us. Not worth Henry styling himself “King of France” if you ask me. Still, it won’t be for long. They say he’s dying.’
‘You do not like the king?’
Tom gives a hollow laugh. ‘What do you think?’
I look at William. ‘I think he is the king. It is not for me to judge him.’
‘Then you are a fool,’ replies Tom. ‘Henry the Eighth is without a doubt the greatest tyrant England has ever known. Boiling women alive for poisoning – that’s nothing but cruel. Hanging the travellers that call themselves Egyptians for roaming the countryside and begging – that’s nothing but unjust. Prohibiting pilgrimages and destroying all the relics – that’s surely unholy. But stealing all the lands of the monasteries and closing them, and pulling them down – that is plain wrong. And he calls himself the Defender of the Faith. Pah! No one has ever so damaged the Faith as he.’
I look at William. ‘Perhaps we should try to undo such damage?’
Tom laughs. ‘Don’t even think of it. You’ll end up like Robert Aske.’
‘Robert who?’ I ask.
‘Aske. You remember – he led the rebellion in the North, oh, eight or nine years ago. The king persuaded him to negotiate, agreed to his terms, and then when Aske’s army had disbanded, the king hanged him and hundreds of other good men. How can a man parley with a king who will go back on his promises?’
‘Moreton seems to be thriving,’ I say. ‘There’s wealth here – better houses, finer clothes . . .’
‘For some, maybe,’ replies Tom. ‘For others, it is just longer hours and higher prices. You may well see fine houses up and down the streets, but my dwelling place is an attic over a stable.’
‘We’ve not even got a stable,’ says William.
Tom looks at him. ‘Then I pity you. And may I say, miserable wretches though we are, yet still our names are inscribed in ledgers and registers. Where is the reason in that?’
I look at William, and he shrugs.
‘It’s all taxes, taxes, taxes,’ says Tom, looking down the road. ‘Taxes and writing go hand in hand. Words are the spells they cast on us common folk, and taxes the curses they bring down on our shoulders. They write your name down when you are baptised. Fail to pay your dues and the king’s officers will come looking for you – and they know where you are living, and where your kin are, because they’ve got lists of all the folk who reside in every parish. May all clerks go to Hell in boats of paper on a great ocean of black ink.’
‘But if all these things are written down, whence come all the clerks?’
‘Barely a month passes without us receiving word of some newly founded school. Folk are teaching themselves to read the Bible. Even women.’
‘Lord, have mercy upon us!’ exclaims William. ‘Why do women want to read? Words are no good to them. They cannot understand the meaning of things.’
‘They learn to read so they can understand,’ I reply, ‘just as you taught yourself – so you could keep tallies and accounts. But imagine how the world would be different if women could read.’
William laughs. ‘Nothing would ever be cleaned or stitched. Women would sit around discussing Moses and Noah while their husbands toiled away to earn a crust. If the women were then so bold as to speak to their husbands about religion, the men would up sticks and head off to a distant town, never to be seen again. Then where will all that reading of books have got them?’
‘I am not so sure,’ I reply. ‘A word of wisdom from a kindly wife might stay the hand of a hard-hearted justice. If the king thinks ungodly acts, might he not take his wife’s advice more to heart if he knows she can read books of wisdom and holiness?’
‘God’s teeth, John. Let’s not even think of such things. Your sons would be all soft-hearted if your wife were to read to them in your absence.’
Then a strange thought comes to my mind. ‘What if she could write too?’
‘There are those who can,’ says Tom. ‘Mistress Charles in Moretonhampstead for one. Mistress Whiddon of Whiddon House for another. And her husband, Master John Whiddon, is a
judge.’
‘I understand why he practises the law,’ says William.
‘But if he were to do her wrong,’ I say, ‘she could reprimand him in public – by writing to all those of their acquaintance.’
We come to Easton Cross. I look up at the hills and the leafless trees on the ridge between us and our native Cranbrook. Every time I see it I feel a pang of lost life.
The church bell in Chagford rings out nine times.
‘Nine of the clock,’ remarks Tom, scratching himself. ‘Two hours yet to get to Jurston.’
‘What is “the clock”?’ I ask.
He looks at me. ‘How can you not know what a clock is? It is a machine for telling the time. With weights and cogs and things like that. Surely you’ve heard one?’
‘My brother is very ignorant,’ says William. ‘Please excuse him.’
‘Thank you, brother.’
‘They’re proud of their clock in Chagford,’ Tom continues. ‘All the folk there live by its chimes. But those from the town are constantly saying “sorry, sorry” for all their lateness – and why? Because their clock tells them so. If they didn’t have a clock, they would never be late. No one would know.’
I am still mystified. How do you get a machine to tell the hour? Time is reckoned by the motion of the Sun around the Earth, which is down to the will of God, so how do you make a machine that tells the will of God?
‘You should hear the complaints when the clock stops,’ Tom continues. ‘Oh, the cog has broken, or the escapement is at fault, they’ll say, pretending to understand these things. But I say to them, if you are so knowledgeable about clocks, why do you not mend it? That silences them good and proper.’
We say farewell to Tom Brimblecombe at the edge of the town and walk up to the church. This building too, like its counterpart in Moreton, has been rebuilt. Immediately my heart is chilled by the thought that maybe the cathedral in Exeter has also been knocked down and reconstructed in a new fashion. Perhaps new walls and sculptures now stand there, where once mine stood.
There are times in life when the cycle of the ages and the destruction of one generation’s work by the next is an uplifting thing, for it promises the young so much. And there are times, later in life, when you realise that it means that your work too will be swept away. Honestly, the only way to secure everlasting fame is to produce such a fine work that no age will ever rival it. I doubt that anyone will look at my hand and rate it so highly.