‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t look like a liar. But I have only your word about your experience. What do you know of milk tallies? Could you keep account?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. I was nearly always the one who did that. And I was responsible for the cheese and butter, depending on the tally of milk.’
‘Didn’t your stepfather keep account?’
‘Yes, sir, to start with. But not after the parson in our village had taught some of us to reckon up numbers and to read a few words.’
‘You’ll be telling me next that you looked after the hens as well!’
‘I did, sir, geese too. The eggs fetched a good price.’
‘Then why, in Heaven’s name, did you leave? Seems to me you had good employment.’
‘I did, sir.’
William didn’t quite know what to make of this girl – this woman, rather. Her gaze was disarmingly steady, as though she was challenging him to ask her what had brought her here to Eye-next-Westminster. Perhaps she was one of the drover’s women? His friend Robin been known to boast of his conquests after a few tankards of ale; perhaps he wanted to keep this one here in Westminster, away from his respectable family in Devon. But, even if she wasn’t the drover’s woman, no doubt it was all to do with some man. It usually was, especially with the pretty ones, and this one’s eyes were as sweet and brown as chestnuts under her linen coif. And she had an appealing little way of cocking her head to one side when he questioned her, as though anxious not to miss anything he might say, eager to please. She was clearly intelligent and she looked strong, too, as though she wasn’t afraid of hard work. If she was telling the truth – and he had a shrewd idea she was – then she’d be an asset to the dairy at Eybury Farm.
But the dairy was rightly Margery’s responsibility. As his wife, her place was at his side, helping him to run the farm, not putting him in the position of having to do any of the milking himself. That was women’s work. If Margery did run the dairy, as she was supposed to, then he wouldn’t need to employ anyone like this woman. Nor have to pay for the privilege.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we sometimes have a vacancy for a dairymaid, but the running of the dairy is my wife’s responsibility, so I’ll speak to her first. Come back tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Master Jourdemayne,’ said Jenna, disappointed. ‘I’ll be here at first light. Do you think your wife might...’
‘I said I’d speak to her. If she wants to take you on, I’ll let you know tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Jenna said again. She was about to drop a curtsey when she remembered Robin saying that William Jourdemayne was no more than a tenant farmer, for all that he had complete responsibility for managing Eybury as a stock farm. So she simply took her leave of him and had turned to walk away when he called after her.
‘Have you somewhere to sleep tonight?’
She hesitated, unsure of his meaning, buying time. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘I said have you somewhere to sleep tonight? The drovers always sleep in the big barn, but there’s plenty of room in the hay loft. Make up a pallet for yourself and sleep up there if you want. At least you’ll have a roof over your head. Don’t worry, two or three of the younger girls sleep up there, too. You won’t be on your own, so the stable lads won’t trouble you. They’ll feel my belt on their backsides if they do.’
He smiled at her and she smiled shyly in return. He seemed a decent man and he did offer the realistic prospect of good, honest work which she knew she could do and do well. If there was a job – and she hoped there was – she resolved to do it to the very best of her ability.
***
The Duchess Eleanor had a niggling toothache again. Mercifully, the tooth was quite a long way back in her lower jaw so, even if it should become discoloured and unpleasant to look at, it wouldn’t show when she smiled or laughed her tinkling laugh. Nothing about her should ever appear unpleasant. She never forgot that her beauty had made her what she was today.
Hers had not been an easy position to achieve but she was still, even after seven years of marriage, the same beautiful woman her husband, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, wanted in his bed. That was all that mattered. Turning her head from side to side, she inspected her reflection in the ornate ivory-backed mirror on her dressing table, admiring the ruby earrings which had been a gift from her husband’s nephew, the King, pleased by the effect of their dark fire against a wing of her raven hair.
But the tooth still throbbed in her jaw. Pushing the mirror aside, she picked up the bell on her table and rang it. A young woman, scurrying in from the next room, dropped a hurried curtsey.
‘Sarah, fetch me Mistress Jourdemayne,’ said Eleanor. ‘And be quick about it.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. Where will I find her?’
‘How should I know? Just find her. Go to the farm first and see if she’s at home. Tell her I must see her.’
‘What if she isn’t there, Your Grace?’
‘Then find her husband. He’ll know where she is. Tell her I am plagued by the toothache and Canon Southwell has had no success in curing it, so she must attend me immediately.’
‘Certainly, Your Grace.’
‘And Sarah!’
‘Your Grace?’
‘Not a word to anyone, do you hear? Not a single word.’
‘Naturally, Your Grace. Not a word. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?’
‘No, nothing else. Now go, Sarah, and don’t loiter, gossiping with your friends. Go directly to the Manor of Eye and find Mistress Jourdemayne. It isn’t much more than a mile, it shouldn’t take you long.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
The girl backed hastily out of the room with her head bowed, groping behind her for the door handle rather than daring to turn her back on her royal mistress. Once the door had closed, Eleanor rose and went to her prie-dieu in the corner. She knelt on the richly embroidered cushion, bent her head on her clasped hands and prayed fervently to St Apollonia for deliverance from the infernal ache in her tooth. If the saint failed her, Margery had better be able to produce some tincture to ease the pain.
***
Having dismissed the young Devonshire woman, William picked up a besom, checked that the twigs around the base of its long handle were securely tied and began sweeping up. He shouldn’t have to do this, but there never seemed to be anyone else available. The truth of it was that he needed more help: the monks were expecting far too much for what they paid him. It was all very well for men of God to be at their devotions seven or eight times a day and saying endless masses for the souls of the dead, but they should show a bit more concern for those who were trying to wrest a living from the heavy clay soil of Westminster. If he wasn’t employed by a huddle of celibate monks, William reflected, there’d be sons and daughters of the family to swell the workforce but, as it was, there were fewer than thirty farmhands employed on the whole thousand acres of the demesne. There were sixty cows to be milked twice a day, and that was without having to look after the fatstock for market. Then there were back-breaking days in the fields, ploughing or reaping, stock-proofing fences or mending walls. He was grateful the sheep looked after themselves for most of the year, now that there was no longer any danger from wolves in the district. Moreover, sheep yielded a good-quality meat and their wool returned a handsome profit for the monastery.
The monks themselves did little or nothing that William could see, beyond wielding a desultory hoe in the Abbot’s garden from time to time before scuttling back to the chapel at the first note of the chapel bell. Or so it seemed to William. But William had too much to do.
He went outside and, shooing an indignant brown hen out of his way with the besom, he began brushing away mud and straw with long, rhythmic strokes, sluicing down the cobbles with pails of water from the big water butt in the corner of the yard.
‘I could do that for you.’
She hadn’t gone. Jenna Harding stood outside the door of the byre, watching him with concern. ‘Let
me help,’ she said. ‘It will pay for my night’s lodging. And, if your wife will agree to employ me, then I might as well start today as start tomorrow.’
‘But ... but clearing out the yard would be no part of your duties.’ Surprised, William let her take the besom away from him without demur. ‘Your work would be in the dairy.’
‘But looking after the hens would be part of my duties, too, and I felt sorry for that poor creature you shooed out of your way,’ Jenna said with a shy smile. ‘I almost feel responsible for her! Her eggs could be worth four silver pence a year to you.’ She started sweeping the wet cobbles methodically, hoping he didn’t think her too disrespectful.
Bemused, William watched her. Yes, he’d been right. He had a feeling this one was going to be a good worker and, to be honest, he could really do with another willing pair of hands to help around the farm, especially since his wife was so busy elsewhere.
Still, perhaps Margery was right to say she was far better employed in selling dreams to fine ladies of fashion, rather than working her fingers to the bone in a draughty dairy. One day, she promised, she would make enough money to buy him a holding of his own, making him the equal of his older brother Robert in Acton. Then he’d be grateful to her and he could take on all the dairymaids he wanted.
Margery was always one for grand ideas. A clever woman, too. William had to admit that Margery seemed popular with the fine ladies up at the palace and they did pay absurd amounts of money for what she sold to them. Her eyes lit up with laughter when she came home and regaled him with stories about which great ladies had paid ridiculously high prices for her creams, her lotions and perfumes. Gentlemen, too, for whom toothpicks, ear scoops or tweezers were absolutely essential aids to grooming. Yes, Margery was undoubtedly clever.
He shook his head and brought his attention back to the woman who was still sweeping the yard with great diligence and skill.
‘Thank you, Mistress Harding,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of you to do that.’
‘Oh, tut, that’s nothing,’ she said, straightening up. ‘It’s a pleasure. And please ... call me Jenna.’
‘Not jonnack?’
She laughed, delighted to realise that William Jourdemayne had a sense of humour to rival Robin’s.
‘No, not jonnack. Jenna will do very nicely, thank you!’
‘Very well, Jenna,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think I need trouble my wife to make a decision in your case. Consider yourself hired.’
***
Margery made sure the linen squares were scrupulously clean before packing them up with the order. It would be stupid to run any risks with Lady Northumberland’s eyes for the sake of re-using a small pad of folded linen. She crossed the kitchen floor to the fire where a pan full of blue liquid was boiling ferociously, and judged it to have reduced by half since she had placed it on the hob.
‘Come in,’ she called, mildly irritated by a knock on the outer door.
‘Excuse me, mistress.’
Margery frowned. ‘Yes, Hawys, what is it?’ she said, wrapping a cloth around her hand before removing the pan of liquid from the fire and placing it on the hearthstone to cool. She straightened up. ‘Speak up, girl. Is there a problem in the dairy?’
‘It’s Kitty, Mistress Jourdemayne. The child has a terrible belly-ache and I wondered...’
‘Has she been sick?’
‘Yes, mistress, twice.’
‘Then it’s probably something she’s eaten.’
‘Well, yes, mistress, but I wondered whether you would be able to come down to the dairy to give her something to aid it?’
‘No, I’m far too busy. Make her an infusion of sweet camomile. That will help.’
‘And where would I...?’
‘Wait there.’ Margery went into her own room and closed the door to the kitchen. Really, these women didn’t seem capable of doing anything for themselves. Camomile was such a well-known cure for a stomach upset and it wasn’t difficult to make an infusion of it. Reaching for a coffer on the shelf, she took out a rough handful of dried camomile flowers and put them into a clean linen bag.
‘Here,’ she said as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Make the child an infusion of these in boiling water.’
‘Will I boil up the water here, mistress?’
‘No, Hawys, I’m busy here, you’ll have to take it to the brewhouse. And, remember, let the infusion cool before she drinks it. That should do the trick.’
‘And what if it doesn’t, mistress?’
‘It will,’ said Margery, becoming impatient. ‘Now, Hawys, I suggest you get back to the dairy as soon as you can. There’s always more than enough work to do.’
‘Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.’
The kitchen door closed behind Hawys and Margery turned her attention back to the saucepan. She tested the temperature of the blue liquid with a cautious finger. Her Ladyship must suffer dreadfully from pinkeye if her constant demand for Margery’s decoction of cornflowers was anything to go by. Her maid had come to the farm yet again this morning to buy a bottle of it for her mistress and Margery didn’t have any of the decoction made up, so the job was urgent.
Her Ladyship wanted some yarrow, too, to settle her stomach, though Margery was not sure it was the best remedy for the wind. Generally she preferred tansy but Lady Northumberland swore by the efficacy of yarrow and was rumoured to take it after every meal. And she was always prepared to pay good money for it, so why argue? If it meant a higher profit, that suited Margery very well.
But there was one problem. William said there was a big cattle drove coming up from Devon this afternoon. This meant all hands were needed to settle the animals and see to the milking so there wouldn’t be anyone available to deliver the order for her. She’d simply have to deliver it herself: she couldn’t let a good client down, she dared not. The word would spread around the palace that she was not reliable, so there was no other option. What with one thing and another, she certainly didn’t have time to go wandering down to the dairy to attend to that child, whatever her name was.
But at least William wouldn’t be getting under her feet tonight, not with the Devon drovers staying in Westminster for a day or two before returning home. He’d probably be in the ale house with his friend Robin Fairweather. It’s what they usually did.
***
The loft above the stable was much like many others where Jenna had slept during her journey from Devon, fragrant with stored hay and still retaining the warmth of the departed day. She stuffed hay into the canvas sack she’d brought with her, pleased that it seemed fairly clean: it would make a dry, comfortable pallet. She shook it vigorously then laid it flat and levelled the hay inside it before lying down. There were two other women already fast asleep in the gathering darkness, exhausted after a hard day’s work. Next to her, a much younger girl was still awake, wide-eyed in the gloom and apparently hungry for information about this newcomer to the farm.
‘So, whereabouts in Devon are you from?’ she asked.
‘Kingskerswell,’ Jenna answered shortly. She didn’t want to be quizzed.
‘And where might that be, then?’
‘If I told you, you’d be none the wiser. What about you? What’s your name?’
‘My real name is Keturah.’
‘That’s nice. It’s in the Bible, isn’t it? Wasn’t she one of Abraham’s wives?’
‘Yes, but I don’t care who she was. I hate my name. It’s horrible. Most people call me Kitty. I’d rather that.’
‘Then that’s what I’ll call you. Kitty. My name’s Jenna.’
‘Jenna? That’s a strange name!’
‘It’s from Cornwall.’
‘Is that in Devon?’
‘Well, down that way.’
‘I wouldn’t know anyway, like you said. We get drovers here from Devon sometimes. There’s one called Robin who comes here quite often.’
‘Yes, I know, I walked part of the way with him.’
‘With Robin! Oh, you’re
so lucky! He’s lovely. I think I’m going to marry him when I grow up.’
‘Oh, really? Does he know that?’
‘No, not yet. I haven’t told him. But I expect I’ll tell him soon.’
Jenna smiled to herself in the half-darkness. This little girl sounded very young, ten or eleven years old perhaps, or less, still young enough to think all her problems would end at the altar. She’d learn soon enough that they didn’t.
‘I’m tired now, Kitty. I’d like to thank St Christopher for keeping me safe on the journey and then I’m going to go to sleep. I have work to do tomorrow!’
‘Where did you sleep when you were travelling?’ Young Kitty wanted to know everything.
Jenna sighed. ‘Well,’ she said, turning on her side, her back towards her persistent interrogator, ‘I mostly slept in hay lofts like this one. Under a hedge once or twice.’
‘It’s a good thing it was summer,’ Kitty observed, nodding sagely to herself.
‘Yes, it is, for lots of reasons. There was plenty of work to be had and the field workers always got fed. And I sometimes earned enough to pay for a share of a straw mattress. But nobody ever kept me awake like you’re doing. Now, Kitty, I really want to get to sleep.’ Jenna yawned exaggeratedly, feigning a tiredness she didn’t really feel. But she was not yet ready to confide in Kitty, or anyone else for that matter.
Kitty was not to be deflected. She inched closer to Jenna and leaned on one elbow, still determined to talk. ‘You’ll like it here,’ she said in a confidential tone. ‘The monks keep themselves to themselves and Master Jourdemayne is ever so nice, for all that he’s very fussy about keeping the dairy clean. No one likes his wife though – we call her Old Mother Madge – so it’s as well we don’t see much of her.’
‘Why is that?’
‘She spends a lot of time up at the palace. She makes creams and ointments and things like that and sells them to the gentry up there. I’ve heard tell she makes a tidy living at it, so she’s away quite often. Mind you, there was a time when she was away for a couple of months. But that was different.’ She waited: surely curiosity would get the better of Jenna.
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