Meanwhile, Mistress Cope and the two girls arranged themselves around the table and a maid in a bleached apron and coif brought the hand basin, offering it to me carefully so that it did not spill. As I made use of the water and towel, Walter gave his father details of our journey while the two girls tried not to stare at me as they absorbed every detail of my appearance.
‘I believe you have come to London on the queen’s business, Madame?’ enquired Master Vintner, regarding me as intently as his daughters. ‘Are you at liberty to reveal what that business is? Perhaps I can be of assistance to you.’
I smiled. ‘That is a kind offer, sir, but I think it unlikely that a professional man like yourself would have much business with craftsmen skilled in ladies apparel. Queen Catherine has sent me to visit certain recommended tailors and merciers – I think you call them haberdashers? – in order to refresh and replenish her wardrobe. Walter has promised to guide me to the quarters in the city where these are to be found.’
The lawyer looked surprised. ‘Really? You amaze me. I had no inkling that my son was familiar with the haunts of fashionable ladies. Walter, were you neglecting your studies all that time I was paying for your education at the Inns of Court?’
Once again poor Walter went bright pink. ‘No indeed, Father, but I do know the way to Threadneedle Street. When I last looked, that was the location of the Tailors’ Hall, where I believe all masters of that craft in London are registered.’
‘Ah yes, I see,’ nodded his father. ‘So you will take Madame Lanière there tomorrow.’
‘And may I ask how long you intend staying in the city?’ Mistress Cope’s enquiry was couched in such a way as to indicate that she hoped it would not be too many days, an inference that was not lost on her brother.
‘Elizabeth, Madame Lanière is welcome to stay as long as the queen’s business keeps her here,’ Master Vintner said firmly. ‘And tomorrow I think you might acquire a good haunch of beef to roast for our dinner and I will ensure that there is some fine Bordeaux wine to go with it.’ He cast a disapproving glance at the dish of cold mutton pie which the serving woman had placed on the table alongside a loaf of day-old maslin bread and a hunk of hard cheese. ‘Is there none of that onion tart left to go with this pie?’ he asked. ‘There was plenty left last night as I recall.’ He leaned in my direction to ask confidingly, ‘I expect you like a good slice of onion tart as much as I do, Madame?’
‘Perhaps not quite as much,’ I responded with a smile. ‘But I do care for a slice of roasted beef.’
‘The onion tart was eaten for our midday meal, brother,’ Mistress Cope interjected.
‘I did not have any,’ Mildy piped up, speaking for the first time.
I cast a swift glance at Mistress Cope and saw her pale cheeks colour slightly. It occurred to me that the remains of the onion tart had been hers and hers alone, but she did not look plump enough to be hoarding food for her own consumption.
‘You do not like onion tart, Mildred!’ the dame told her niece acidly. ‘And young ladies should hold their tongues at table unless invited to speak.’
‘I would like to ask you girls where you learned such excellent French,’ I intervened, changing the subject.
‘Our mother taught us,’ answered Anne proudly. ‘And she taught us to read as well.’
‘And Latin, have you learned any Latin?’
‘No. Our father speaks Latin but he says it is not necessary for females.’ Anne looked a little crestfallen, as if she would have been keen to study the language that opened the door to so much learning. ‘Do you know it, Madame?’
I shook my head. ‘No, and I am only just learning English so you are well ahead of me, being flnent two languages already. In France not many women even learn to read.’
‘That is the case here in England as well,’ said Master Vintner. ‘My wife was an exception and wished her daughters to be educated to a certain degree. My sister does not read, do you, Elizabeth?’
Mistress Cope sniffed. ‘I have never felt the need,’ she said stonily. ‘Running a household requires other skills.’
I cut a piece of mutton pie with my knife and bit into it. The meat inside had not been stewed long enough and was tough and stringy. I swallowed it with the help of a sip of the wine Master Vintner had poured and decided to make do with bread and cheese. I noticed Walter and his father both chewing mightily and pondered how much skill it took to hire a cook who could cook or find a pie shop that could make pies.
However, when I was shown to my chamber later I found it clean and well furnished with a jug of water for washing and a night pot for my convenience. I decided that what Mistress Cope lacked in the kitchen, she made up for in the bedchamber, then smiled at my own thought, glad that I had not voiced it aloud and in company. Then, exhausted after my journey, I snuggled gratefully beneath the covers and blushed to think that I had even conjured a single thought about any bedtime activity other than sleep.
11
On waking the next day, my first thought was for Genevieve. Guilt stabbed me as I realised that I had seen my beloved mare led away down an alley and had not given any further thought to her welfare. However, during our evening meal my two saddlebags had been delivered to my chamber and I had been able to shake out my best blue Flanders wool gown and hang it on a convenient clothes pole to allow the creases to fall out. I intended to wear it in the evening for Master Vintner’s promised feast. Meanwhile, I washed my face in the water provided, gave my travel-stained russet riding kirtle a good brush to remove the worst of the mud splashes and donned it once more before hurrying downstairs to find the stable.
In daylight the house in Tun Lane was revealed to be one in a row of substantial town houses constructed on a frame of strong, dark oak beams filled in with lime-washed lath and plaster, similar to hundreds I had seen in the towns we had passed through on the court’s progress around England. It was larger than most, boasting four windows on each side of the two gabled upper floors and was roofed with slate tiles which, considering the danger of fire in cramped city streets, I thought a vast improvement on the straw and thatch used in poorer neighbourhoods. An intriguing series of pargetted designs relieved the rectangles of plasterwork on the first floor overhang, the beams framing images of twining vines laden with fruit, a ship loaded with barrels and capering youths and girls treading huge vats of harvested grapes. There was no mistaking that this house had once belonged to a wine merchant, even if it now housed a lawyer’s family.
The narrow tunnel down which the horses had been led the previous night opened on to a rear courtyard surrounded by outhouses, one of which I rather hoped might be a privy. A stable boy was busy tipping a barrow-load of soiled straw onto a muckheap in the corner of the yard and I asked him to show me where Genevieve was. On the way past a feed-barrel I grabbed a handful of oats and enjoyed my mare’s little whicker of recognition before she snuffled them off my outstretched palm. She was comfortably settled in a stall beside Walter’s cob and looked none the worse for the previous day’s long trek. Following the advice of the horse-loving Lady Joan, I felt her legs carefully and was happy to find no sign of heat. I reckoned a day’s rest would do her no harm however.
Having found and made use of the privy, I took a quick tour around the rest of the yard, discovering that the ground floor of the house was given over to a chamber of business where two legal clerks were already busy penning entries in large leather-bound ledgers under the sharp gaze of their employer, Master Geoffrey Vintner. As I passed the open door that led directly into the yard, he called my name.
‘Madame Lanière, good morrow to you! I trust I find you well rested.’ He came out to meet me, his amiable face wreathed in smiles. I found myself wondering if this genial man could really be a forceful interrogative lawyer, then I remembered that he was also a diplomat, where I imagined that cordiality was a definite advantage.
I returned his bow with a bob. ‘Thank you, Master Vintner, I slept well. Your house is very c
omfortable.’
‘I am glad you think so and it is close enough to the wine warehouses for me to keep an eye on the legal side of our family business. My older brothers are the wine merchants, but I am of some use to them. May I escort you up to the hall to break your fast?’
‘Thank you. I have been checking on my mare but, of course, it was unnecessary. Your stable is as well set up as your house.’
We entered the back door and climbed the narrow stairway from the front lobby. In the hall the table had been pushed to one end of the room and bread and jugs of ale were laid out on the cloth. There was evidence that we were not the first there but whoever had already eaten had also left. We took a bowl each and some bread to a small table by the hearth. Someone had stirred the fire back to life and a cauldron of pottage stood on a trivet keeping warm. The lawyer ladled some into my bowl.
‘My sister may not be good at mutton pie, but she does make decent pottage,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘She has breakfasted early and gone off to seek the makings of a good beef dinner and she has taken the girls to carry her baskets.’ He filled his own bowl and sat down opposite me, adding confidentially, ‘I am fortunate that she agreed to come and care for my daughters after their mother died. Elizabeth has a brusque manner but a good heart. I can trust her to do the best for the girls.’
‘I am sure you can,’ I said, breaking some bread to dip in the pottage and deciding it would be tactful to change the subject. ‘Your son tells me you travel frequently to France. Is that on wine business?’ I knew it was not but did not want to make trouble for Walter if he had told me too much of his father’s affairs.
Geoffrey Vintner pursed his lips. ‘Partly,’ he concurred. ‘But because of my knowledge of both French and English law, I am sometimes employed on missions for the king; a glorified messenger really between the English court and the governing councils of Paris and Rouen. Do you have family in France?’
I suddenly found the bread hard to swallow as a lump came to my throat, a problem which had started to occur more frequently lately as I struggled to come to terms with the extended separation from my children. I tried to clear it and spoke hoarsely as a result.
‘Yes I do but, sadly, they eat from different plates. My son is a huntsman in the dauphin’s household – I am sorry, I mean the Pretender of course …’ I blushed and rushed on, ‘and my daughter is married to a Parisian tailor and so now lives under English rule. She has a little girl, my granddaughter.’
Master Vintner ignored the dauphin/Pretender slip in favour of blatant flattery. ‘Saint’s bones! You are a grandmother? Impossible!’
I felt my cheeks burn even hotter and inwardly scolded myself for foolishness. ‘It is only too possible, sir,’ I said, avoiding his teasing gaze. ‘You might be a grandparent yourself if your son were a daughter.’
He thought about that for a moment. ‘Ah yes, I see what you mean. I find it difficult to contemplate the fact that my daughters are nearly of an age to take husbands. Am I the only father who hates that thought?’
I gave a small laugh. ‘That depends on the husbands they take. Fortunately mine chose well.’
He frowned. ‘Chose?’ he echoed. ‘You mean she chose her own husband? What was her father doing?’
My cheeks had cooled now and I gave him a direct look. ‘Sadly I lost my husband after the Battle of Agincourt. He was as much a casualty of that disaster as the Duke of York, even if he was not a nobleman.’
‘A disaster you call it?’ He kept his expression neutral. ‘Well I suppose for many thousands of your countrymen it was just that. Did he fight in the battle?’
I laid down my horn spoon to clasp my hands tightly in my lap. I did not wish to begin a detailed description of Jean-Michel’s miserable and unnecessary death. ‘No, he was a charettier. He drove supplies for the royal army. Although I serve the queen, I am not of noble stock, sir.’
Master Vintner struck his knee with the palm of his hand and laughed. ‘No more are my son and I, Madame, and yet we serve the king. These are changing times, are they not?’
I resumed my meal and we ate in silence for a few moments. ‘Where is Walter?’ I asked at length. ‘I do not imagine he is a lay-abed.’
‘No, no. I have sent him about his own business. He has gone to buy quills and paper. If you will permit me, I will escort you to the Tailors Hall myself. As it happens, I have done legal work for the guild and I think my introduction may ensure you more solicitous attention than my young son’s.’ He paused, observing me humbly. ‘I hope this arrangement does not offend you.’
In fact I found myself unexpectedly pleased by his offer but I restricted my response to a brief smile and a nod of appreciation. ‘Not at all, sir,’ I said. ‘It is very generous of you to spare the time.’
On Master Vintner’s advice I strapped pattens onto my shoes for the walk to Threadneedle Street and I was glad I had. The muckrakers may have been out at dawn, but the gutters in the lane had already received new and generous dumps of household waste and the main thoroughfares were liberally scattered with fresh droppings from travellers’ horses and the wild pigs that still apparently roamed the streets and gardens. London’s fifty thousand citizens had to eat and drink and pursue their livelihoods and so they also had to live with the side effects. Although the pattens made walking clumsy, at least they kept my feet and my skirt off the ground and my escort was kind enough to offer me his arm over the worst parts.
It was not far to the Tailors Hall and, on the way, we passed numerous workshops of crafts I would need to explore later; haberdashers, drapers, cordwainers, hatters, glovers and hosiers. London might be only half the size of Paris, but there seemed to be no lack of the skills necessary to maintain Queen Catherine’s reputation for setting the style, even when she began to change shape from her usual willow-wand slimness. The only question lay in whether there was a tailor who would be able to satisfy her demand for the new and avant-garde. My son-in-law Jacques had proved exactly the young and daring innovator she had wanted and I needed to find his equal in the lanes off Threadneedle Street.
By coincidence, while we waited in the dim oak-panelled hall for a meeting with the grand master of the guild, we witnessed an argument between a tailor and his wife which stirred my interest. For a guild freeman, which he clearly was, the tailor was a relatively young man; in his mid-twenties I would have guessed, his wife about the same, and their conversation centred on a subject which, in view of my own daughter’s position; working in Paris with her husband, was of particular interest to me.
‘Whatever happens, you are not to become excited and start shouting.’
These were the first words I heard as we drew near to the couple, who were among several groups and individuals standing around the long room. The young tailor was addressing his wife, who was already red-faced with suppressed irritation.
‘It will not help your cause and nor will it help mine, which is more important,’ he added.
‘It is unjust!’ she seethed, her voice vibrating with passionate indignation, ‘My work is lauded in the guild when it carries your name and yet I am not permitted to sell it as my own. I do not know how you can take all the credit when you know it is I who do the work.’
‘It is our business, Meg, and we are making our reputation,’ he insisted, keeping his tone deliberate and hushed. ‘When we married, you were happy just to have an outlet for your designs. Do not forget that you would have had no opportunity at all without the backing of my name.’
‘But it is not your name that actually does the designs, cuts the patterns and sews the seams, it is me! How would you like to have someone else receive all the praise and money for your singular endeavours?’
‘I would not stand for it, but I am a man and that is the way things are and you will not change it by shouting at the grand master like a Billingsgate fishwife!’
She looked mutinous, but simmered down enough to keep her thought process logical. ‘Perhaps the answer is for me to stop
work and then we will see if our business makes any money!’ she muttered.
‘You can stop work when you fulfil your marriage contract and produce the children to staff our workshop,’ retorted the man with what I surmised was unkindness born of disappointment. ‘Until then, let us turn our attention to the more urgent business of how we are going to answer the guild’s accusations of over-pricing.’
She sniffed loudly, her resentment simmering. ‘We demand the highest prices because our gowns are of the highest quality. I will insist that fact until the moon turns blue.’
At this point a clerk nudged my companion’s elbow and asked us to follow him to the grand master’s chamber. As we traversed the hall, I asked the clerk if he knew the name of the couple we had been standing next to. He glanced back and smiled with instant recognition. ‘Ah yes, goodwife,’ he said, embarrassingly mistaking us for a married couple, ‘that is Master Anthony and his wife. Their designs are presently in great demand by London’s richest and noblest and, because of that, they think they can break the guild’s price tariffs. They are in dispute with the Chapter.’
‘And with each other,’ I murmured and made a mental note of the name Anthony, but I had more interest in the mistress than the master. A female tailor with a reputation for style might be just what Catherine needed in the months leading up to her confinement.
On my return to the house in Tun Lane, the smell of roasting beef assailed my nostrils like a benediction. After introducing me to the Grand Master Tailor my host had left me to attend to his own business, leaving strict instructions for me to meet Walter by the Cheapside fountain at the Vespers bell.
‘I have told my son to escort you home because London is a safe city in daylight,’ he had advised, ‘but as darkness falls a good woman risks being mistaken for one of her less reputable sisters. Besides, you might lose your way and I do not wish you to miss any part of the meal my sister is preparing for us this evening!’
The Tudor Bride Page 11