An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Mummy shouted at Ma Scrope and she died. Mummy’s awesome.’

  And Peterson with his gentle kindness and pain-filled eyes. And Markham with his new-found sense of responsibility. And Dr Bairstow with his beaky nose, peering at me over his desk as he found something to complain about in one of my reports. Even Rosie Lee and our daily – sometimes hourly – skirmishes over who would make the tea. I missed them all. They were gone forever. As I was gone from them.

  And with that thought I would curl up even more tightly and feel the tears run down my cheeks as I waited for another day to dawn without them.

  We embarked on busy rebuilding. Tarpaulins were secured over the hall which reminded me of my own time. William the Carpenter was permitted to bring in extra labour. The sound of hammering and sawing echoed from dawn till dusk. The smell of new wood was everywhere. No one was hanging around. Winter would be here soon enough. And there was what remained of the harvest to get in. Livestock to fatten up. Houses to make weatherproof. Firewood to be collected. Every cottage began to sprout enormous piles of wood that would last hardly any time at all.

  Being the most unskilled of all the unskilled labour, I was on firewood-collecting duty. The rules were simple – if it was on the ground then it was mine. I was forbidden on pain of death and worse to touch living wood. I spent days lugging back old bits of wood salvaged from the forest floor. The pile by the kitchen door never seemed to get any larger.

  Autumn began to happen. One night I awoke and I was freezing. The first frost is no fun if you sleep on a stone floor. When William had finished with his pot the next morning, I ventured into his room to make a request.

  ‘God give you good morning, sir.’

  He grunted, pulling on his boots. His chattiness plumbed new depths in the early mornings. ‘Pack your gear.’

  What? Why? Now what had I done?

  I said cautiously, ‘Pack my gear? All of it?’ As if I had trunks full of clothes and combs and mirrors.

  He finished with his boots and got to his feet. ‘Today we move to the solar.’

  That was news to me. I mean, I knew he was moving out. As almost lord of the manor he was entitled to better accommodation than this. And a toilet without a weird foreign woman sleeping in it, too. I hadn’t realised it was today. And I certainly hadn’t realised I was going with him. I’d rather hoped for a little corner all to myself. Still, at least I wasn’t one of the fittings, to be passed on to Tam the Welshman when he succeeded to William’s position.

  I said cautiously, ‘I have no gear, sir.’

  He was on his way to the door. Now was a good moment to ask.

  ‘Sir, I crave leave to travel to Rushford.’

  He stopped with his hand on the latch and looked at me. ‘You are leaving us? You are unhappy here?’

  ‘No, sir. Not at all. I am much beholden to all here for their kindness and care.’

  ‘Then why? Do you have news of relatives there?’

  ‘No, sir.’ I gestured at my by now very well-worn Persian tunic. ‘Sir, winter draws near and I would go to Rushford for a warm cloak.’ No need to burden him with the rest of my shopping list.

  He seemed to see what I was wearing for the first time.

  He nodded. ‘I go there today. Be ready at the third hour. Terce.’

  I nodded and retreated back into my toilet.

  I made sure I was early. I didn’t want to keep him waiting. He was my ride.

  They led out his horse, the big chestnut beast, Theobald. He snorted in the crisp morning air and tossed his head. William Hendred reached down for me. It seemed I was to ride pillion.

  He didn’t speak at all, but it was a pleasant ride. Theobald was a good horse, strong and easily able to carry both of us. We crossed the ford and trotted up through the village. Once away from the buildings, we broke into a canter, eating up the miles. Most of the path was through dense woodland although at one point I saw what I took to be the village of Whittington away among the trees.

  The sun was warm on my back. It was hard to believe that winter would be here soon. The trees were just beginning to turn gold.

  I heard Rushford before I saw it. The peal of the church bells carried across the river. That and the smoky haze over the town told me we were getting close. It’s always a surprise to see how low the buildings were at the time. There was nothing above two stories apart from the church towers and the castle itself, glowering down at everyone from its position on top of the hill.

  The Rush was wide here and shallow, fast flowing over a gravel bed. We slowed and splashed through the ford.

  The town walls weren’t high. Not much higher than ours at St Mary’s, and the gates stood wide open. There was only one guard and he was leaning against the wall, his pike leaning with him. It was market day and everyone was welcome. Their money even more so.

  Once in through the gate – where the guard greeted William respectfully by name – he disappeared into the first inn we came to. The old wooden sign denoted it as The Cider Tree. I stood out in the street for a while, feeling like an idiot, unsure whether he expected me to wait or not, decided I wasn’t getting any younger, and pushed off to see what I could see.

  Rushford was so much smaller than I remembered. There were very few buildings on the other side of the river. The majority of the buildings crouched around the base of the castle.

  Today was definitely market day. Stalls filled the narrow streets leading up to the castle. I took a tight grip on my purse and made my way slowly past metalworkers, haberdashers, furriers, shoemakers, gold merchants, spice sellers, butchers and bakers, all yelling their goods at the tops of their voices. I fought my way through a gaggle of geese, spitting and honking at everything in their path as they were driven down the street. Beggars sat or lay in the road, palms outstretched. Many of them were children.

  Finally, I came across a tiny stall, rammed into a corner between two buildings. I liked the look of this one because it was run by a young woman. I examined her merchandise, looking for what I needed.

  I found a tiny comb I suspected was part of a much larger original. It was made of bone or ivory, I wasn’t sure which, but it was just what I needed.

  I did my best to haggle. To look like someone who could easily walk away if the price wasn’t right, but I was rubbish. I had to have a comb and this was the only stall I’d seen that sold the sort of tat I could afford. I held out a coin. She shook her head and went to take another. I shook my head. She shrugged and stepped back. Bugger – this wasn’t going well. And I really had to comb my hair. It was driving me insane. In the end, reluctantly, I nodded and smilingly, she handed me the comb. I had a nasty feeling I’d paid well over the odds and I think perhaps she felt a little guilty about it because she included a small piece of hard, grey soap in the deal. It wouldn’t lather, but maybe I could use it to scrape my skin clean.

  I picked over some lengths of ribbon. I could really do with a touch of colour in my life – the red and green silk stole was fading fast under the bashing it was taking these days, but I couldn’t afford to waste what might be the only money I might ever have in my entire life. I sighed and went to move on.

  She really was the most persuasive saleswoman I’d ever met. Unerringly she picked out my favourite colours, holding up a handful of blue and green ribbons. And yes, she was right and they would have looked wonderful – even on me – but no, I couldn’t afford them. Shaking my head and smiling regretfully, I backed away.

  Now I needed to find a clothes stall which, in an age when people made all their own clothes, could be difficult. Clothes were worn almost until they fell apart and then had a new lease of life when they were cut down for the kids. I was ranging up and down the stalls, looking for someone who looked as if they sold second-hand clothes when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I jumped a mile, spun around and found myself face to face with William Hendred.

  He stepped back, slightly astonished at my reaction. You could tell he’d never been kidnappe
d in his entire life. Not even once.

  I pulled myself together and greeted him politely.

  ‘God’s greeting, sir.’

  He nodded curtly. ‘Come.’

  Wondering why I always attracted the chatty ones, I followed him closely as he worked his way through the crowds. He stopped at a stall under the shadow of a large house. The front of the house was let down to display bolts of colourful cloth. I hung back. All of this was far too expensive for me. He pushed his way past the displays and we entered the house proper. A man bustled forwards – well fed and well dressed – obviously the shop owner. They greeted each other. I stood quietly, looking around me.

  This small room also seemed part of his shop. More bolts of material were stacked around the walls, but in the corner, hanging from pegs, were items of clothing – male and female, but mostly female.

  The man stepped away and spoke to an underling who immediately cleared a space on one of the tables and began to unhook items of clothing and bring them over.

  I’ve never actually bought clothes when surrounded by men before and I was quite embarrassed about it. I think William Hendred must have realised this because he muttered something and took himself off out of the door. I made myself concentrate.

  Here were second-hand clothes of all types. I had no idea if they’d been traded in for new material or what, but I was grateful. I would never have found this on my own and certainly wouldn’t have known what to ask for. The owner, whose name was Robert Sutton – or Sugden, I wasn’t sure and no one actually introduced him – and his man eyed me up and down, measuring my size, I hoped, and began to lay out various bits and pieces.

  Carefully sorting through the pile, I pulled out something in dark brown – a good, practical colour. The length was too long, but Margery would help me cut some off. It had obviously been discarded because of a large stain all down the left-hand side. I sniffed it carefully. I think it was an oil stain. Still, I couldn’t be choosy. If it didn’t have the stain I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. I laid it carefully to one side and then saw something blue.

  This was the one. It had once been a very good dress. It still was, if you discounted the fact it had faded almost to grey over the years and had been ripped down one side. Again, Margery could help me mend that. I suspected it had been someone’s pride and joy once. Dark patches showed around the neck where an original piece of fur or embroidery had been removed and transferred to another garment. But the wool was good – soft and warm. This would do me well.

  The servant, murmuring respectfully, pulled out something in brown and held it up. A sleeveless surcoat, hopelessly old fashioned, but again, good quality, and just what I needed as an extra layer for the winter. And not too long, either. It was perfect. I nodded my thanks.

  William Hendred returned, spoke again to the owner, Master Sugden – or Sutton – who barked a sharp command and someone found a cloak. A wonderful cloak. Thick and full, it was made of felted wool on the outside to make it waterproof and with a soft lining on the inside. There was enough of it to go around me twice. It even had a hood. It was wonderful. It was a cloak in which I could confidently face the winter. I could even sleep in it. Again, it wasn’t perfect – the hem was ripped and ragged and the hood needed a repair – but if it had been perfect then it would have been too expensive for me. I was thrilled, wrapping it around me, again and again, feeling the weight and the warmth.

  I piled up the three garments and took out my tiny purse.

  I’m not sure what happened next. There was a great deal of talking, I know that. They went at it hard and fast. Initially I thought they were having an argument and stepped back, worried that all this wonderful clothing would suddenly disappear and I’d have to get through the winter in a thin linen tunic and a battered and rapidly shrinking piece of silk stole. I reckoned I’d last until the end of September at the very latest. The servant, carefully folding the dress and surcoat and wrapping them in the cloak, winked at me, and carried on with his task, completely unperturbed.

  Eventually, Master Sutton – or Sugden – made a gesture indicating he was ruined forever and to leave his premises forthwith before he was reduced to begging in the streets.

  William Hendred grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. Unsure of the outcome, I timidly produced my purse and shook the contents into my hand.

  Master Sutton was far too grand to handle money. His servant sorted through the coins and showed me what he’d taken. I nodded my approval – I still wasn’t sure how much I’d paid for the whole lot but this was not the time to argue – and was handed the surprisingly neat bundle.

  They said their goodbyes, good humour restored now that business was concluded. It seemed likely Master Sugden’s – or Sutton’s – business would survive at least until the next market day after all, and I found myself back out in the noisy street again.

  I would have thanked Master Hendred, but he shook his head and I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or irritated, so I let it go.

  I was so excited by my purchases. I wasn’t a beggar any longer. I wasn’t relying on the goodwill of other people – well, I was, but I could pay my way now. I had a change of clothes. I could finally wash the ones I was wearing – and not a second before time, let me tell you. I could comb my hair properly. I had possessions to lay out on my stone shelf in toilet. Or wherever I ended up.

  A pieman stood on the corner with three or four people queueing before him. An historian tip. Always buy your pies from the vendor with the queue. If the locals are eating his wares then they’re probably OK. I nipped over, and juggling purse and bundle, bought two golden pies. I handed William Hendred one.

  He seemed so surprised that I wondered if I’d done something wrong. I probably had. I wondered if an unmarried woman buying an unmarried man a pie in public constituted forward behaviour, but I was grateful for his help and this seemed an appropriate way to thank him.

  We walked away, eating and being jostled by the crowd.

  He said, ‘Give me your purse.’

  I chewed, swallowed, and said thickly, ‘Why?’

  He sighed. ‘Cutpurses.’

  ‘Oh.’ I handed it over and he tucked it in the front of his doublet for safety. Not that I thought anyone would rob him anyway. He was obviously well known in the town. Men saluted him courteously or stepped back to give him room.

  I wanted to look around, to compare the Rushford I remembered with this older version, but the steep streets were too narrow and crowded and I had to spend my time looking where I was going. The cobbles were slippery, badly laid in some places and not at all in others. And there were people everywhere, shouting, arguing, selling things, buying things, greeting each other. Children ran in and out of groups of chattering people. Occasionally a man would try to push his horse through the throng. Men stood outside the taverns, talking, doing business, socialising. There were all sorts here from street beggars clothed in rags and sitting against a wall, their hands held out for alms, to rich merchants striding through the streets as if they owned them – which they probably did. Women with baskets bought spices, inspected poultry, sniffed disparagingly at whatever was being held up for their pleasure, gossiped and displayed their best dresses for admiration.

  We rounded a corner and there was the castle, but not as I remembered it. In my day, the outer ward was gone, but here the walls were intact. I could see the drawbridge was down. A stream of people made their way in and out. Somewhere in there, Walter of Shrewsbury would be bustling about, full of importance, doing his master’s business and thoroughly enjoying himself.

  I glanced up at William Hendred who grinned at me. I suspected he’d had exactly the same thought.

  And then it was time to go home.

  I had another stroke of luck. We had returned to The Cider Tree where he had stabled his horse and waiting outside was William the Carpenter, complete with his family and cart. I was offered a place in the back along with all the little carpenters. I hoppe
d in. William Hendred walked his horse with us back through the gate and then, once on the road home, broke into a canter and disappeared in a cloud of dust. I passed the journey home showing off my purchases and admiring theirs. For me, it was a happy day.

  There was one more thing to come.

  They took me to the ford. I jumped down from the carpenter’s wagon, clutching my bundle of new clothing, eager to shake it all out and hang it up. I wanted to lay my comb on the stone shelf, along with the little piece of soap the stallholder had given me, but I wasn’t given the chance. When I arrived at the gatehouse, Owen directed me across to the solar. I had forgotten. William was moving into the main building today.

  The door to the solar was to the left of the hall. I crossed the courtyard and stepped down into the sunny room where I’d first met Master Walter. It still smelled of burned wood. William Hendred was there. He nodded his head toward the stairs. I found my way up, wondering whose toilet I would be sleeping in this time.

  There was a good bedroom up there. I could see William’s stuff scattered around as young Roger carefully carried his belongs up the stairs. This was a comfortable room. Not as grand as the rooms in the newer North Tower, which is where the family would lodge when they visited, but much more pleasant than the gatehouse. There were larger windows through which the sun streamed – hence the word ‘solar’ – the floors were of wood, the walls plastered and painted with a swirly feather design in dark red.

  Roger pointed to a partitioned corner. Ah – I was in the toilet again. I felt a stab of resentment. They still didn’t trust me. After everything I’d done they still didn’t trust me.

  I stepped behind the partition. It was a proper room and it was lovely. There was a window with a view out over the carp ponds. There was even a niche in the wall in which someone – Roger probably – had put a little rush light. Someone had placed a palliasse on the floor with a new blanket folded neatly on the top.