by Jodi Taylor
I could see a gatehouse with two stumpy little towers built either side of a big wooden gate. The curtain walls were a good fifteen to twenty feet high, so I could only see the upper parts of the buildings they sheltered, but there was a small tower to the north and a corresponding but taller tower to the south. Both towers were overhung by wooden jetties into which modern – for the time – windows had been built. I could see the sun glinting off them, indicating that the upper parts at least were glazed. Between the two towers there was a tiled roof, covered in moss and lichen, indicating a great age. As far as I could see, the hall was in exactly the same position in this time as in my own. And about the same size, too.
The old man had said I wasn’t too far from home. I wondered if, given their obvious lack of expertise with a pod, they’d just banged in the easiest set of spatial coordinates they could find. Because this was St Mary’s. Not my St Mary’s, but St Mary’s nevertheless.
I couldn’t believe how little it had changed. True, there were no cars, or yellow lines, no village shop, or streetlights, but the little houses were in almost the same place as they were in my day. The pattern of tracks and paths was familiar. I remember reading somewhere that, even today, the street plans of many cities still follow the original paths taken by animals as they went down to drink at the river. Except in those unfortunate places where town planners have had their way, of course, straightening winding roads, knocking down lovely but inconvenient old buildings and replacing them with contemporary statements of concrete and blue plastic. I myself am eagerly awaiting the day when we burn town planners with as much enthusiasm as our ancestors burned witches.
The day was warm and sunny, with a heavy smell of cut grass in the air. Everyone seemed to be working on the land. They were getting the hay in. I could see figures dotted all over the place. I couldn’t help contrasting the scene with our modern village when you were lucky to see anyone at all between the hours of eight in the morning and six in the evening.
I drew back under the trees for another think. Because if this was summer 1399 then things were about to get very sticky indeed.
In February of this year, the richest man in all the kingdom, mighty John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had died and the king, Richard II, taking advantage of the heir’s absence, had made his long-planned move to seize the vast Lancastrian estates for the crown – and you really can’t do that sort of thing in England. An Englishman’s home is his castle etc., etc. Every property-owning man in England immediately panicked. Because if the king could do that to the richest and most powerful man in the country, what could he do to lesser men?
The new Duke of Lancaster, Henry Bolingbroke, exiled abroad, turned out to be not so powerless as Richard had hoped, and set sail for England immediately, with the sole purpose of reclaiming his inheritance. He said. And that might have been true but, when he landed, Henry discovered that Richard, not the brightest king around – and soon not to be around at all – having angered and antagonised every property-owning man in the country, had pushed off to Ireland, leaving his country temporarily unguarded. You honestly have to ask yourself, what was he thinking there?
Anyway, Henry lands at Ravenspur to popular acclaim and, apparently, has the crown thrust upon him in Richard’s absence. Reluctantly – ‘You want me to be king? Oh, but I couldn’t possibly … well, all right then.’ – he accepts the job. Richard returns, surrenders, and then dies of ‘starvation’ at Pontefract Castle.
Now, usually, these events are faint and far off and have very little impact on tiny, remote villages like this one. But, as I happened to know, the manor of St Mary’s was part of the Lancaster lands and a certain Guy of Rushford, who was some sort of cousin to the current owner, had long cast covetous eyes on this particularly prosperous place. Taking advantage of the political turmoil, he would attempt to seize the manor and make it his own, assuming – probably correctly – that, with everything else going on, the king wouldn’t give a toss about a piece of property so tiny and insignificant.
Looking around, it obviously hadn’t happened yet because I’d never seen such a peaceful rural scene, but that wouldn’t last.
I racked my brains, drawing patterns in the dust with a twig as I thought. Henry would land at Ravenspur at the end of June. The king would return in late July, landing in Wales and taking refuge in … in … I pummelled my brains. Yes, I know you’re lost and panicking, Maxwell, but if you don’t get this sorted out then you’re not going to last for very long. Concentrate. Conwy. Conwy Castle, that was it. There would be negotiations, and Richard would surrender in August. Henry would ascend the throne and Richard would die. And at some point during all that, Guy of Rushford would descend on St Mary’s and attempt to take it by force.
It was going to be a lively summer. If I lived that long.
There was no point in hanging around here. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten and, after the smoke of Persepolis, I was thirsty too. I needed to step out and meet my fate. Chin up, Maxwell. Shoulders back. No creeping about. Straight down what would one day be the main street, over the ford, up to St Mary’s and ... and … and think of something when I got there.
I made sure not to meet anyone’s gaze as I strode down the main street, but from the corner of my eye, I could see heads lift. People straightened, scythes or rakes in hand and stared at me as I passed. I suspected strangers were a rarity and unaccompanied female strangers absolutely unknown.
The smell of cut grass was even stronger as I descended into the valley, along with smoke, hot horses, hot people and something peculiar I later identified as a product of the brewing process.
I paused at the ford and dipped the end of my stole into the cool water. I needed to tidy myself up, wash my face, and try to look a bit more respectable. I couldn’t do anything about the smell of smoke or the small brown holes singed into my tunic but, in my experience, most people in History smell of smoke and animals anyway and I couldn’t do anything about it, so no point in worrying.
Looking around without seeming to look around, I could see that work had almost come to a halt as people watched me.
I crossed the ford, stepping carefully from stone to stone. I had no wish to arrive dripping wet and an object of ridicule. And then, having come so far, I stopped. I lost my nerve. What on earth did I think I was doing? Where was I going and what would I do when I got there? I think that was one of the worst moments. That was when I realised how truly lost I was. My head swam. I stood by the bank, listening to the water swirling around the stones and breathed. I needed to find a little courage. I needed to be bold. I thought – what would I do if I was at St Mary’s? And then I thought – bollocks to that. I am at St Mary’s. Or I soon would be.
I lifted my chin and followed the path. Straight up the slope to the gatehouse.
The big wooden gate was shut, but there was a wicket set into one side. I caught a glimpse of some cobbles through the open door. The gate was unmanned but a bell hung from the wall. I muttered a prayer to the god of historians – for all the good that would do – and rang the bell. Just once.
For long seconds, nothing happened and I wondered if I should take a chance and just go through the gate anyway. Good manners said I should leave any weapons here and wait for permission to enter, but there was no one to ask permission from. I was lifting my skirts to step through when a man appeared. He stared at me for a moment and then came forward to stand over me, smiling and nodding.
My first thought was that as the guardian of the gate he was a bit of a dead loss. Yes, he was a big lad, but this was not the bigness of a military man. He was flabby around the middle, spotty around the mouth and had the eyes of a child. He grinned amiably, showing more gap than teeth, and mumbled something.
I drew myself up and said in my best Middle English. ‘God give you health, sir.’
‘Ah,’ he said cheerfully. He didn’t appear to understand me. I wondered if perhaps I’d got everything wrong and I was somewhere in anot
her country. Or even – given my lifestyle – an alternate universe.
I said even more slowly, ‘Of your kindness, sir, I seek shelter.’
He beamed at me.
I beamed back again.
I pointed at myself, then in through the gate, and then mimed drinking something.
He nodded and smiled but didn’t move.
I nodded and smiled and wondered what on earth to do next.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding over my shoulder. I turned around to see a man approaching at a fast walk, closely followed by two others. He ignored me completely, clapped my host on the shoulder and shouted angrily through the gate. A third man appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The real gate-guard, I guessed, taking advantage of the boss’s absence for an afternoon nap. And now, thanks to me, he’d been caught. He threw me a very unloving look. I sighed. Another friend made. How long had I been here?
Everyone looked at me. Assuming the new shouting man to be the boss – correctly as it turned out – I clasped my hands respectfully and tried again. ‘God give you good health, sir. I seek shelter for the night.’
He didn’t move. My heart sank. They weren’t going to let me in. They might give me water – perhaps even a piece of bread – and then they would turn me away. Where would I go? What would I do? It wasn’t the first time I’d been thrown out of St Mary’s but life in the real world never goes well for me. This would be even worse. I might just as well go back into the woods, choose a spot, curl up there and die.
There were two men standing behind this new man and they both had their hands on their daggers. It seemed a little excessive for one small woman. People usually only want to kill me after they’ve got to know me better, but these were suspicious times. I wondered how much they knew or had guessed about what was to happen here.
He said something I didn’t understand. I do have some medieval English words, but dialects vary from region to region. Even from village to village. It was perfectly possibly that people living as closely as Whittington and Rushford would be unable to understand each other. I’d thought of this, though.
I said slowly, and in Latin, ‘God grant you health and long life, sir. I beg for aid and shelter. I am alone and in a strange land.’
He continued to stare at me for an unnervingly long time. No one moved. All around I could hear the shouts of the people calling to each other in the fields. A dog barked somewhere and another replied. The heavy scent of cut grass hung in the air.
The silence seemed endless. They weren’t going to let me in. Ronan’s men had meant well. They probably thought they’d done me a kindness, but I was going to die here. This time next week I’d be just as dead as if they’d shot me in that clearing and left my body for the forest animals. That could still happen. The forest animal bit, I mean. I sighed. What did it matter anyway? My shoulders sagged – I hadn’t realised I’d been so rigid with tension – and I turned to go.
I’d taken no more than three or four steps when he called me back. I turned to face him and tried to wipe the tears off my face with the back of my hand.
He still wouldn’t let me in, but there was an old tree trunk half hidden in the grass and he pointed to it. I sat gratefully and smoothed my dress as best I could. One of the men brought me a beaker of water for which I thanked him. He stared curiously and then, at a word, the two of them disappeared again, back to the fields.
I knew better than to gulp the water down. I made myself take small sips. One sip – count to five – and then another and so on. It lasts longer that way. He said nothing the whole time. I discovered later he rarely said anything at all.
I studied him as I drank. I saw a man possibly about my own age but it was hard to tell. I suspected he wasn’t as old as he looked. He wasn’t dour, but he certainly wasn’t someone who laughed a lot. His thick fair hair was mixed with grey. Bright grey eyes flecked with hazel stared unnervingly at me from under thick eyebrows. I suspected he was a fighting man. He wasn’t short, but very thick-set and well-muscled. A small scar bisected one eyebrow. It was a hot day and he wore his sleeves rolled up and I could see a very bad scar across his forearm. Whoever had stitched that together must have had his eyes closed as he did it. He reminded me of someone though I couldn’t think who. His clothes were a dark russet, clean and well made. Medieval fighting men don’t wear studded black leather anything like as often as the entertainment industry would have us believe. I looked down at his boots. Again, they were well made – scuffed, but good quality. His men had been armed but he himself carried only a small dagger at his belt and that he probably used for eating. I was a little puzzled. He was obviously in charge, but he wasn’t well enough dressed to be lord of this manor. And he wasn’t the steward. This was an outdoor man. More like the marshal. Yes – he was the marshal here, I was sure of it. In charge of the small garrison and in a place of this size, possibly the stables and other outdoor matters. And he was responsible for security. He was the 14th-century Ian Guthrie. Yes, that was who he reminded me of. That same air of quiet competence and complete control. That same air of exasperation. Except this one, just like everyone else, smelled strongly of hay.
‘I am William Hendred,’ he said quietly and in very reasonable Latin. I wondered if they did speak English here. I know at the beginning of the 14th century everyone who was anyone spoke medieval French. By the end of the century everyone spoke English, but this was a very out-of-the-way spot.
He continued. ‘I am the marshal here. What is your name?’
‘Joan,’ I said, remembering an excursion with Peterson to Southwark some time ago. He’d managed to catch the plague, silly bugger. A huge pang of homesickness stabbed at my heart. I’d been Joan of Rushford then, but that wasn’t a good idea here. We were too close to Rushford. He’d be despatching messengers to check and no one there would have the faintest idea who I was. I needed somewhere further afield. I would be Joan of Rouen. I’d been to Rouen. Not for long, but at least I’d be able to describe the market square. And being from France would account for my peculiar accent. Until some fluent medieval French speaker turned up, of course – which, with my luck, would be in about ten minutes’ time.
‘You are not French.’ A statement not a question.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but my husband Leon is – was – from Rouen.’
‘Where is he?’
I heaved a sigh. ‘Dead.’ Never tell anyone anything more than they ask.
‘When?’
‘I am not sure. A month … perhaps.’
He twisted round to look at me more fully.
‘How?’
My voice trembled uncertainly because I was uncertain. If you’re going to lie then you should always go for it big time, but this was going to be a whopper.
‘We were travelling to England from Calais. Leaving Normandy. The times there are not good. We sold everything. There was a group of us, all going to England. To start again. The crossing was good. We were nearly safe when the weather changed. They made us all stay below deck. Someone saw a light but the ship hit some rocks. Water poured in. They pulled some of us out. I … never saw my husband again. I slipped on the steep deck and fell into the water. I clung to a small barrel. I prayed to God because I thought I would die. But I did not.’
I stopped.
He waited for me to finish. Damn and blast.
‘There were men on the beach. With a light.’ I stopped again and then said in a whisper, ‘They took the cargo and killed the people.’
‘Except you.’
I nodded. ‘I stayed in the water.’
‘You can swim?’
I knew better than to say ‘yes’.
‘The good Lord protected me.’
‘And then?’
‘They loaded everything on wagons. People … my friends … were struggling ashore. They cut them down and then they threw them back into the sea.’
‘And then?’
There were no clues in his face or voice. I had no idea how this lit
tle fantasy was going down.
‘The sun came up. I struggled ashore. I didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t sure if I was in England. And if I met anyone, would they help me or kill me? I walked along the coast until I found a small group of houses. There were nets outside. A woman gave me some bread. Then I walked. For a long time. I found some work at an inn but it wasn’t … I didn’t … the landlord wanted me to … so I set off again. To look for work. I think I thought I could earn enough to try to take a boat back to Normandy. Although there’s nothing for me there. Or perhaps stay here. I don’t know …’
He stared at me grimly as I outlined this daft plan. ‘And your husband …?’
‘Gone forever,’ I said, truthfully. It was the first time I’d acknowledged this to myself and the tears poured down my cheeks. I put my hands over my face and, no longer caring whether he believed me or not, I gave way to an overwhelming sense of loss.
I honestly thought he’d push off and leave me – most men do when I cry all over them. I don’t cry prettily and there’s snot and all sorts of unpleasant substances, but when I took my hands away and wiped my nose on my mistreated stole, he was still there, looking down at me.
I stared damply back again.
More and more people were passing in and out of the gate, returning from the fields and staring curiously as they passed. I wondered how much I cared.
Abruptly he said, ‘We can shelter you tonight. Tomorrow we will see. I must speak with the steward.’
Interesting. We had an absentee landlord then. He and the steward would be in charge.
I faltered, ‘You are not lord here?’
He shook his head. No resentment. No pretending to be what he was not.
‘Abroad.’
‘His name?’
‘Why?’
‘So that I can remember him in my prayers.’
‘You owe your shelter to Sir Hugh Armstrong.’
That was useful to know. And he wasn’t here. Was he in London? Had he gone into exile with Henry of Lancaster? And if so, was he on his way home?