An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  As I did, Fat Piers stepped back from his last platter, spat soggily and accurately into the sauce, and motioned it away. We were done here. There was nothing left. I was staying well away from the hall, but I imagined the tables must be groaning under the strain. All the best pewter was out there. Roger and Edgar had worn their legs to stumps bringing up the entire contents of the buttery. Wine, beer – it was all nearly gone. Our guests were singing. Always a good sign. I could hear them banging their cups on the table, beating out the rhythm. Now was the time.

  Roger and Edgar had left the last full jugs full of wine on the sideboard. If they wanted any more they would have to go off and find it. Not that I reckoned many of them would be that capable. I gathered from Roger’s disgusted expression that quite a few of them were already pissing where they sat.

  Quietly, people began to disperse. Every time I looked around there were fewer people in the kitchen. Our people were slowly melting away. There was only Walter left in the hall, standing in the corner supervising the proceedings. Now was the time for him to invent a problem in the kitchen that only he could solve and slip away. I hoped he had a horse tucked away somewhere. If Fat Piers hadn’t cooked it.

  I spared a thought for William Hendred. Where was he now? What was happening in Rushford?

  I pulled myself together. I couldn’t do everything and he was a capable man who could look after himself. I should concentrate on what was happening here because things were about to get lively.

  While we’d been working to get the food out, Margery had brought up the oil. Almost every lamp St Mary’s possessed stood on the table nearest the door.

  Areas had been allocated. Roger and Edgar would set fire to the upper stories. They went first because they had to get back down again and away before the flames took hold. They would throw oil on the beds, open the shutters and as many doors as they could, strike a flame and run.

  Fat Piers would torch his own kitchen because no one else had the nerve.

  Walter was to burn the ground floor solar room and whisk himself out of the way.

  And Margery and I had the old wooden shed next to the stables on one side and the feed store on the other. From there we would be straight out of the gate and up into the relative safety of the woods.

  St Mary’s teamwork. What could possibly go wrong?

  It was a good job I was with Margery. I’m a modern girl and although I was making a reasonable job of living the life of a medieval woman – well, I thought I wasn’t doing too badly – it’s the little things that always get you in the end. I didn’t have anything with which to make a flame. I snuck into the small barn alongside the stables, flinging oil around the place – including a good bit on myself – when I realised with dismay that I didn’t have the equivalent of matches. On the other hand, I had Margery, who shouldered me aside, made a little pile of hay and straw dust, and breathing heavily, carefully laid a small handful of hay over the top and struck her tinder.

  That was when things started to go wrong because she couldn’t get a flame going. She tried and tried. I left my station by the door where I’d been hopping from foot to foot, keeping nervous watch, and came to see what the problem was.

  Her hands were trembling so much she couldn’t get a spark. Drink, nerves, whatever, it just wasn’t happening. I stole a quick look out through the door. The courtyard was still empty. But not for long. Roger must have set his fires upstairs, Fat Piers had done the kitchen and they’d both legged it. It was just us and we had to do this.

  I put my hand on her shoulder and pressed gently. She nodded, exhaled sharply, took three deep breaths and tried again. I returned to the doorway and stood as quietly as I could, keeping watch and trying not to let my impatience show. Someone was going to notice what was going on at any moment. Flames would be roaring through the kitchen, the solar, and the south tower. I’m sure it was my imagination, but I was convinced I could smell burning.

  I looked around. Dry wood. Hay and straw were stored in the loft above. It was high summer. We’d had no rain for several weeks. This barn, the stables next door, the outhouses – everything would go up like a rocket. A small whoomph recalled my attention. She’d done it. Everything was about to go up like a rocket.

  She nudged me towards the entrance. It was rather like being hit by a soft, warm, beer smelling, heavy goods vehicle, but I got the message.

  Not wanting to draw attention to ourselves, we used the unobtrusive back door, intending to skirt the Midden of Happy Memories, nip around the back of chicken house and only emerge into the courtyard proper when we were within sight of the gatehouse. Then a quick dash out through the still open gate and we’d be away.

  Margery poked her head around the side of the washhouse. The courtyard was continuing its empty theme. We were both of us very, very cautious. There were fifty drunken men in the hall who would really be in the mood for a little after-dinner entertainment. Anyone would be cautious. But, there was only thirty yards or so between us and the open gate. We were as good as out.

  I don’t know what made me look behind me, but two men were standing watching us. That they had intended to use the midden was very apparent. They were unlaced and ready to go.

  Bollocks.

  Their faces lit up. One said something to the other – probably the medieval equivalent of ‘Don’t fancy yours, mate,’ and here they came.

  It got worse. It was bloody onion man. And he’d brought a friend. I was surprised he had one. And then things got very much worse because the man with him was Jerald, his wet, blubbery lips hanging loose. He caught sight of Margery and gave a high-pitched giggle.

  Again. Bollocks. The best that could happen was that we were in for a very unpleasant ten minutes or so. Or, given the state of them, somewhat less than ten minutes. The worst was that they would notice the absence of every other member of the St Mary’s household, the smell of burning, the drifting smoke and raise the alarm before we had escaped. Why does this always happen to me? And Margery, of course. I looked around. Margery had gone.

  What?

  I spun around, disbelieving. I wouldn’t have thought it of her. She’d pushed off. She’d left me.

  The two of them were striding towards me – equipment hanging loose for ease of access. I looked around for a pitchfork. Or a bucket. Even a bolshie chicken. Anything with which to defend myself. Nothing.

  And then Margery reared up behind them both, massive and silent, sleeves rolled up to expose her brawny arms and belted onion man around the head with a wooden bucket. He dropped like a stone. A blow like that could have killed him.

  Jerald, never the brightest sword in the armoury, stared down at his fallen friend, and then Margery caught him with her bucket’s back swing. Smaller and lighter than his friend, he was knocked clean off his feet and in through the burning doorway.

  If he was unconscious he could burn to death. I took one tentative step towards the flames, Margery uttered some exasperated medieval oath, shook her head and seized my arm. With all caution gone, we sprinted for the gate.

  I heard a shout behind us. And then another. Whether another midden visitor had discovered the fires or their stricken comrades I didn’t know and I certainly wasn’t going to stop to find out. I could hear Ian Guthrie, centuries away, telling me to never mind what was going on behind me. I’d find out soon enough if I didn’t get a move on.

  I could smell burning on the wind. Smoke drifted in the hot afternoon air. I could hear the crackle of flames. And shouting.

  We flew out of the gates.

  Well, I flew – Margery lumbered a few yards and then stopped, chest heaving, leaning against the wall for support. I tugged at her arm. ‘We cannot stay here.’

  She shook her head and pushed me away.

  I came right back for another go, trying to pull her away from the wall.

  Again, she pushed me and gestured that I was to go. Up the hill to the woods to join the others.

  ‘No,’ I said, in English, not c
aring whether she understood me or not. ‘I’m not leaving you. We’re St Mary’s. We never leave our people behind. You can do it.’

  But she couldn’t and there was no way on this earth I could shift her.

  She gestured over my shoulder and at the same time I heard hooves coming up behind me. I swung around, dropped into my best ninja pose and prepared to sell my life dearly. And I might have to. It was bloody Walter of Shrewsbury, astride a snorting, lathered horse, his robe hoicked up around his knees to show his skinny legs. At his heels, on foot, were John the Smith and one of his innumerable sons. Where had they come from?

  Walter gestured to me. I gestured to Margery. He gestured to his men. This could go on all day, and all the time I could smell the smoke and hear the shouting. Seconds only had passed but we shouldn’t be here. Any of us. Someone had raised the alarm. It wouldn’t take them long to pour through the gate and then things weren’t going to go well for us. We’d invited them in, tricked them, probably poisoned them, and tried to burn them alive. They weren’t going to be particularly well disposed towards any of us and that was before they found out William Hendred was in Rushford, doing the same to them as they were doing to us. But with more success, I hoped.

  Again, Walter gestured to me. John and his son each seized a portion of Margery – brave men – and literally ran her down the hill towards the village. I assumed they had some plan to get her to safety. Which left me and Walter. There was a crash behind us. I had no idea what it was but something had obviously just given way. They would be here in seconds.

  Walter was reaching down for me.

  Not a little surprised, I took his arm, put my foot on his boot, and heaved myself up behind him. I remember thinking again that he was much stronger than he looked. His horse was already springing forwards, foam flying from its bit as we pounded up the hill. I hung on tightly. Obviously, this ‘We’re St Mary’s and we don’t leave our people behind’ dated from long before the time of Dr Bairstow.

  We paused under the eaves of the outlying trees and looked back. St Mary’s was burning. The hall and part of the south tower streamed smoke. The stables, chicken house, wash house – all the wooden buildings on the west side were ablaze. Huge orange flames streamed skywards. The courtyard was full of staggering men, all shouting pointlessly.

  I let go of Walter’s waist because I don’t think either of us were enjoying that very much, and slithered off his horse. He went ahead while I assumed my rightful position, staring at his horse’s arse, as we made our way by quiet, sun-dappled paths to where the others were awaiting us.

  We all lived in the forest for a few days. We had to. It was the easily the safest place to be. We guessed the Rushfords would limp back to their former rightful home, only to find that two could play at their game and it had been occupied in their absence. They would not be happy. But that was William Hendred’s problem. We’d done our bit by evicting them from St Mary’s. I wondered whether, in an effort to make the best of things, they’d return here, but as Roger said, why would they? The water was bad and the buildings were damaged. The villagers had fled taking their possessions with them. The livestock was hidden and the harvest was still in the fields. There was nothing for them at St Mary’s. I nodded. He was right.

  It was a strange feeling for me to be part of someone else’s plan. I was just a cog in the machinery. I didn’t know what was going on elsewhere and I wasn’t important enough to be kept in the loop. I sat on a log, resting the hand I didn’t know I’d burned, and tried to work out what would be happening in the rest of the world. I had no idea of the exact date but we must surely be into August by now. The nights were drawing in. Henry must have declared himself king. It was only a matter of waiting until Sir Hugh returned to reclaim St Mary’s.

  Some people wanted to return to the village but the homeless Rushfords were out there somewhere and there was always the possibility they could gather more support. I suspected that among their forces, those who could – those who weren’t tied to them feudally – would sum up the situation, realise they weren’t going to be paid for this one and push off. Enthusiasm for the venture had probably all but disappeared, but that wouldn’t make the Rushfords any less dangerous. They were dispossessed and when the king was informed of their attempts to steal a part of his Lancaster lands, they’d be outlawed. Wolf’s heads.

  Walter despatched a couple of lads to Rushford, to report to William Hendred and inform him what had happened here but, in the meantime, until the situation became clear, Walter insisted everyone remained in hiding. There were four or five sites scattered around the forest and he visited them all daily, alternately haranguing and encouraging. Unlikeable he might be – well, there was no might about it – but he took his duties and responsibilities very seriously.

  His resolve was all the more creditable because one of his main concerns must be the harvest in the fields and whether, out of spite, the Rushfords would indulge in an orgy of destruction before they departed. With no second harvest, St Mary’s buildings burned and their supplies depleted, it could be a tough winter for everyone, even if Rushford’s castle and lands had been captured.

  I spent most of my time dozing in the leafy sunshine, waiting for my burns to heal and hoping it wouldn’t rain. Living in a forest is all very fine and romantic if you’re Robin Hood, but less so if you’re a single woman who never remembers to have an adequate supply of dock leaves on her. We didn’t eat too badly. There was flat bread and pottage and more green leaves than I would have been comfortable with six months ago, but no one starved.

  And then, on the fourth day, we heard horses. More than one horse was approaching fast. The men present – the very old and the very young who had been left behind – pulled out such weapons as they had. We women herded the children together, seized branches from the pile of firewood and waited. I clutched my stick in my unburned hand and stood, tense and still. Who would appear around the corner?

  I caught a glimpse of a familiar, big, chestnut horse, snorting as he came, and then William Hendred, heading a group of three or four other men, was among us. Someone gave a cheer which was taken up by everyone.

  I let my breath go in a silent sigh of relief.

  Walter bustled forwards. They looked at each other for a moment. Walter thrust out his hand, which William ignored and enveloped him in a huge bear hug. People cheered again.

  He’d come from the village. The Rushfords were long gone. Most of the village was intact. An attempt to burn down the big tithe barn beside the church had failed. And best of all, Sir Hugh had arrived at the head of a small force of men.

  Guy must have realised his world was slipping away from him. That Hugh now occupied his castle in Rushford. That Henry of Lancaster was now king. Or as good as. That this new king would not be kindly disposed towards him. That the future did not hold a lot of promise for the Rushford brothers. He and Jerald had slipped away into the night leaving those who lived in Rushford to return sheepishly to their homes, where they could expect the worst.

  Wisely, Sir Hugh did not hold them responsible for carrying out their lord’s instructions. There was a pardon for all. A clever move to ensure their future loyalty. He was a clever man. I hoped his benevolence would extend to me.

  He was to marry the Rushford sister – Katherine, I think her name was – and live in the much grander Rushford Castle. Walter would go with him to oversee his new lands and properties. Apparently, Guy had mismanaged the estate to such an extent that there would be plenty for him to do and, in so much as he ever could, he looked pleased and excited. I was pleased and excited for him and even more pleased and excited for me. He’d be nine miles away.

  William Hendred was to hold St Mary’s for Sir Hugh. He would, in effect, be lord of the manor. A stupendous reward for loyal service. I was pleased and excited for him as well. And I would have, if not a friend, a least a familiar face, in a high place. It had been a lively week but it was over now. We could return home.

  O
ur joy lasted until we got back to St Mary’s and saw the damage that had been done. They’d wrecked the place before they left. Thatched roofs had been burned, livestock pens wrecked, doors pulled off. Most of the roof was gone from the hall. The ground floor of South Tower, with its lovely sunny room, was badly scorched but, as William said, the curtain wall was intact, as was the gatehouse. A couple of bodies had been found under the stable ruins. Those who hadn’t made it out of the fire. They were quietly buried. Neither Jerald nor onion man were among them.

  William took control immediately, allocating tasks and men. Walter was getting stuck into Rushford. Sir Hugh was to return to London to make his name with the new king.

  That just left me.

  You think I’d be a heroine, wouldn’t you? You’d think they’d be falling over themselves with gratitude and flinging me a bit of pork with my nightly pottage. Even a commemorative spot on the midden. Not a bloody chance. There was a lot of muttering – from Walter, obviously – about how, if we’d just hung on for a week, then Sir Hugh Armstrong would have turned up with the king’s men and lifted the siege without us actually having to burn the place to the ground. How they would have managed the poisoned well problem wasn’t mentioned.

  And, as I tried to point out, the place wasn’t burned to the ground. Slight exaggeration, guys. All right, the wooden buildings were toast but they could all be rebuilt. And it wouldn’t take much to put a roof on the hall. The giant beams were still intact. They could seize the opportunity to modernise it and build in a proper fireplace while they were at it – with a good chimney that my son would approve of, although I didn’t mention that, obviously – and in a year or so you’d never know anything had happened. And Sir Hugh had a posh new home in the best part of Rushford. Walter had a spanking new job and a whole new set of people to boss around and William Hendred had been given St Mary’s to hold for Sir Hugh. A home of his own with status and responsibility to match. Everyone was a winner. Except me, of course. Never more than two steps from the gallows.