The Black and the White

by Alis Hawkins

  This chance to shout, to rage against Master Alleyne, is also the chance to howl against the gnawing fears and terrors of months. For the pestilence is a coward too, creeping where it cannot be seen, striking when it cannot be struck against.

  I look about for a glimmer of Hob’s cloak in the blur of people. Where is he? Has he seen the temper of the crowd and left?

  It is clear that Piers Alleyne is nobody’s fool. He sees the danger he is in and turns to the Lady Matilda who rises from her chair. From my poor vantage-point, her whole body looks stiff with fear and she has her hands clasped in front of her. When Alleyne offers her his arm, she seems, for a moment, unable to move.

  Finally, she takes a few steps and the bailiff makes to lead her off the dais. But people have come here at his bidding and they are not minded to allow him to simply walk away. A body of men moves towards the gatehouse and stands in front of it, barring the way.

  I watch them fold their arms and plant their feet; will they dare to lay hands on him, on their lady?

  The crowd surges forward and I am carried with it.

  As Master Alleyne tries to bluff it out and lead Lady Matilda from the dais, one of the men barring his way steps forward and puts up a hand. ‘We’re not finished here.’

  Suddenly, I see Hob. He is running around the outside of the crowd towards the platform.

  ‘Master Bailiff, please wait!’

  He leaps up on to the dais, causing immediate outrage in the crowd. Who does this stranger think he is, to put himself on a level with Lady Matilda?

  The reeve stalks up to Hob, though he does not dare put a foot on the dais. ‘Who are you? What’s your business at our court?’

  Hob holds up both hands. ‘I’ve come all the way from Cricklade with a message from Master Richard Longe.’

  The crowd begins babbling at this news, but my eyes are fixed on Lady Matilda and Piers Alleyne. The surge forward has brought me close to the dais and I see a look pass between them at the mention of Longe’s name. She looks stricken, he turns away from her to glare at Hob.

  ‘What message?’ Alleyne moves back towards the centre of the platform.

  ‘It’s written down.’ Clearly, Hob saw me arrive, for he looks straight at me and beckons me towards him.

  I make the approach slowly, certain that this is a mistake. Sir John is dead. We should not be here.

  ‘The message is for your late father, Lady Matilda,’ Hob explains as I stand before the dais.

  Alleyne’s eyes are on me. ‘And how do you come to have it?’

  I come to a halt before him. ‘We’re pilgrims, master,’ I tell him. ‘We met Master Longe at Cricklade. When he knew we were travelling east, he asked us to bring this letter to your lord.’

  I peer into the linen bag and withdraw the letter with Sir John’s name on the front. Fixing my eyes on Lady Matilda, I hold it out to her.

  She looks down at it, then at Piers Alleyne who steps forward and takes it from my hand. He turns to the reeve. ‘I’m not expected to read Lady Matilda’s private communications to her out here, am I?’

  Before Legge can speak, one of the men barring the gate moves towards the dais. ‘You’re not our lord, you’re the bailiff’s son. The Lady Matilda may take the letter into the house —’

  Before anybody can lift a finger to prevent him, Alleyne has jumped down from the dais and struck the man, backhanded, across the face with a gloved hand.

  ‘How dare you tell the Lady Matilda what she may and may not do? Kneel and beg forgiveness before I have you flogged!’

  The fellow looks around at the crowd but his neighbours hold back. He licks blood from his lip.

  Suddenly, Lady Matilda speaks up. ‘I don’t mind hearing the letter here.’ Her voice trembles. ‘You’re my people. I have nothing to hide from you.’

  All eyes turn to her.

  ‘Richard Longe and some of my father’s other retainers went to Cricklade,’ she says, her thin voice causing the crowd to push further forward as they strain to hear her, ‘to meet the escort of a young man — Henry Garville — who was to come here to be married to me.’ She casts a glance at Piers Alleyne who gives a small nod, though whether of approval or permission I cannot tell. ‘I hope this letter will give us news of Master Longe. And of Henry Garville.’

  She and Alleyne look long and hard at each other. Is it because of what I have lately been engaged in with Christiana, or do I see a tenderness, a longing, between them?

  Finally, Alleyne breaks the seal on the letter and his lips move as he reads its contents to himself. When he looks up, there is something in his expression that I do not like.

  ‘Richard Longe regrets to inform Sir John,’ his voice rings out as he translates the letter’s contents, ‘that he has waited over a fortnight for the young man to arrive at Cricklade without any sign of him.’ He looks up to see their reaction then drops his gaze to Longe’s letter once more. ‘He asks whether he should go and seek out the young man at his father’s house or whether he should conclude — as seems likely — that the young man is dead, and return home.’

  His eyes turn to Lady Matilda who gives him a smile of such sweetness that her feelings cannot be mistaken.

  As Alleyne faces the crowd once more, he seems to have grown a handspan since reading Longe’s letter. He is upright, taut. Suddenly, I am filled with misgiving.

  ‘We did not need such a letter to tell us what Henry Garville’s absence had already indicated.’ Alleyne stops, eyes on the crowd, and I know that something significant is coming. ‘Therefore, on the death of her father, Lady Matilda, feeling the need of protection in these uncertain times, consented to marry me.’ He holds out a hand and his new wife steps up and takes it, her eyes fixed on his face. Alleyne turns back to the crowd. ‘We were married three days ago. I am your new lord.’

  The uproar is slow to grow, but it quickly gathers pace.

  I overhear objections, questions, though none so loud as to be directed to Master Alleyne.

  I try to catch Hob’s eye to signal that we should leave. Now. But Slievesdon’s new lord beckons me to him.

  ‘You have another letter in that bag. Give it to me.’

  His expression fills me with the conviction that, whatever Richard Longe wrote to the now-dead bailiff about Hob’s worthiness or otherwise to receive a further ten shillings, no good can come of hearing this letter read now.

  ‘It was addressed to the former bailiff, my lord,’ I tell him, ‘it’s not important, now.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion on the matter. It’s for me to decide what’s important and what isn’t. That letter was written to my father. Give it to me.’

  It occurs to me that I should run. Alleyne sees it in my face and takes a step forward to grip my forearm. ‘The letter.’

  I have no choice but to give it to him. When he sees that the seal is broken, he holds the two halves out to me, wordlessly.

  ‘We’ve travelled a long way, my lord. Our goods have been tumbled and manhandled.’

  He shakes his head as if to pity the poverty of my invention, but says nothing more.

  Quickly, muttering the words to himself under his breath, he reads the letter. After a moment or two, he raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Are you Hob Cleve?’

  ‘No, lord.’ I gesture. ‘That’s Hob.’

  Alleyne waves the letter in the air. ‘It seems that these fellows have not brought us Richard Longe’s news out of the goodness of their hearts, as they’d have us believe, but from quite different motives. It seems that this fellow —’ he grabs Hob’s cloak and drags him forward to face the crowd — ‘has used the pretext of the pestilence to extort a large sum of money from Master Longe. What’s more, he’s come here expecting a reward.’

  The crowd stirs, restless and confused by the sudden shift away from Alleyne and on to us.

  He holds up the letter. ‘I’ll read you what Master Longe says about him.’

  What will I do if he reads something other than wh
at I know the letter says? How can I admit to reading it?

  ‘To my friend and the bailiff of my master, Nicholas Alleyne — or, if he is gone to God since my departure, to whomsoever has taken up his office — Richard Longe sends hearty greetings from Cricklade where you know the business I am sent to oversee.’ Alleyne looks up at the crowd. ‘And now you, also, know the business he was sent to oversee. Marriage business that could not be brought to a conclusion because of the pestilence.’

  He returns to the letter.

  ‘May it please you to know the fellow who carries this letter as Hob Cleve —’ he gives Hob’s shoulder a shake as he names him — ‘a self-proclaimed freeborn man’.’

  There are whoops and cat-calls at his doubting tone and shouts of ‘Runaway!’

  I begin to tremble; words that appeared good-natured when I read the letter to Hob — and would, I am sure, have seemed good-natured from one friend to another — take on a darker meaning in Piers Alleyne’s mouth. His eyes on Hob, he waits until those in the crowd who want to hear the rest of the letter have quelled those who simply want an excuse to shout.

  ‘He has had ten shillings from me already,’ he commences reading again, ‘he and his companion —’ he indicates me with one hand, eyes still on the letter — ‘and has been promised ten shillings more for bringing this letter to my lord.’

  He looks up once more. ‘Ten shillings,’ he tells the crowd. ‘He’s had ten shillings already and now he expects to be paid another ten!’

  Outrage breaks out once more, all the fury the crowd previously felt towards their self-appointed bailiff deftly transferred to us.

  I see the angry faces shouting, men pointing, and I fear that Hob’s ten shillings may be the death of us.

  Piers Alleyne puts up a hand and prepares to read on.

  ‘If he has delivered Sir John’s letter with the seal unbroken, then he is worthy of his ten shillings,’ he shouts above the hubbub. ‘If I have read him aright, he will have broken the seal on this and will have found someone to tell him its contents before now.’

  He looks up from the letter. ‘Master Longe believes that to break one seal is permissible, but not the other.’ He pauses, as if he’s considering the case. ‘Master Longe is a soldier and sees things in a practical light. I am trained in the law and, in my eyes, the breaking of any seal is a breach of faith.’

  He lets his eyes rove over the muttering, staring crowd before addressing himself to the letter again. As he does so, a sly smile breaks out on his face.

  ‘I do believe Master Longe likes this fellow. He says, “If you can persuade him to stay on my lord’s manor, do so. For I believe he will be reeve within five years and the richest man in the village within ten”.’

  He lets the hand holding the letter fall to his side and gazes out at the crowd. ‘My friends, who wouldn’t be the richest man in the village if he could demand ten shillings for doing a simple task? Who wouldn’t be reeve if he was allowed to lie and break faith and claim to be one thing when, in fact, he’s another?’

  A prickle runs down my neckbone as Alleyne’s tone shifts from admirer to judge.

  ‘I say if he’s had ten shillings already —’ his voices rises like a huckster’s with a hard sell — ‘then he doesn’t deserve ten more! What do you say?’

  ‘No! No more!’

  Fists are waved in our direction. Nobody knows where we have come from, they cannot weigh in the balance how far out of our road we have travelled to be here; they are simply outraged that a man should earn ten shillings for carrying a letter. If we die here, what will become of the saint? What will become of my father’s immortal soul? An icy panic starts in my gut and begins to pour along my veins.

  Alleyne holds up the letter once more. ‘There’s a greeting at the end of the letter,’ he tells them, ‘written by Master Longe in French, for my father alone.’

  The ice in my veins reaches my fingertips and I find I am shaking. What did the soldier say to his friend that he did not want Hob and me to know?

  Master Alleyne begins to read. ‘Forgive me, my friend, for writing to you in English and not as a friend in our own tongue,’ Alleyne reads, ‘but I fear that, if this fellow cannot find a way to read this letter and see that I have made provision for him to be paid as we agreed, then the letter which he carries for Sir John will end up in his cooking fire.’

  Alleyne takes hold of Hob’s shoulders and propels him to the front of the dais, where everybody can see him. ‘This is a man who would have burned a letter intended for a lord who fights at the side of the king’s heir. A letter containing news of his daughter’s betrothed husband.’ He pauses, watching the crowd work themselves up into a righteous fury. ‘And, for the favour of not burning it,’ he shouts over the babble, ‘he wants a further ten shillings!’

  I can feel Hob’s tautness from where I am standing. I fear that he will turn on Piers Alleyne. If he does, all semblance of control over the crowd will be gone. They will swarm on to the dais and tear us to pieces.

  The Lady Matilda is white and shaking. The braided, uncovered hair, with which she’s hidden her real status as wife, makes her seem younger than her years.

  Swiftly, I slip behind her husband and fall on my knees in front of her. ‘Lady, don’t let violence mar this announcement of your marriage — don’t let what should be a happy day be remembered as a day of bloodshed.’

  Her hands are clasped so tight in front of her that it she seems to be holding herself upright by the pressure of palm against palm.

  ‘Please, Lady! If you don’t do something, they’ll take us and kill us!’

  She gives a little cry but then seems to gather herself together. Taking a breath, she bids me rise. As I do so, she moves to her husband’s side and speaks, urgently, into his ear.

  He makes as if to put her aside but she grips his arm and looks into his face.

  I watch and it is as if the two of them are alone on the dais, each looking into the face of the other. Then he nods and draws her to him to kiss her brow.

  With her at his side, he turns to the crowd. ‘The Lady Matilda,’ he smiles down at her, ‘my wife — has a tender heart. She cannot bear the thought that this would be a day of anger and accusation. For, today, we have announced our marriage and she would like — we would both like — to remember it with happiness.’

  ‘Not going to give him that ten shillings, are you?’

  Alleyne looks for the questioner. ‘No. We’ll give that ten shillings to the people of Slievesdon, instead. We’ll share it amongst the widows of the pestilence who are left with infant children.’

  An astonished hush falls over the gathering as people struggle with the reversal of fortunes that this entails. They were summoned here to pay fines and now they are being given money by a man whom they detest but who is, by all accounts, their new lord. It is no great wonder that they are lost for an apt response.

  The reeve speaks for them. ‘That’s very generous, Mast— my lord. But what are we going to do with these two?’

  Alleyne turns to us. Now that he has deflected the crowd’s dangerous anger away from himself, we are of no further use to him. ‘Let them go on their way. See that they leave the village within the hour and that no harm comes to them.’

  The crowd parts, silently, as he leads his wife down from the dais and through the gatehouse.

  ‘Right!’ Thomas Legge bellows as the gate is closed behind them. ‘This court is at an end. If you have animals to render as death-dues, bring them to the lord’s pound by sunset. Now, be about your business and God keep us all.’ He crosses himself and faces us. ‘Come on, before he comes back and changes his mind.’

  We follow him, watched by a group of men who have not yet dispersed; the same group that defied Alleyne and prevented him from leaving the dais.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ the reeve demands. ‘There’s nothing more to see.’

  ‘We’ll come with you to see them out of the village,’ one of them says.
‘Make sure they don’t steal from people who’re tending the sick.’

  His lip is split. He is the man Alleyne struck. Edwin.

  Legge shrugged. ‘If you’ve got time to waste, I’m not going to stop you.’

  He sets off up the village’s main street, Hob and I hard on his heels. We do not speak. We both know how close we came to ending our journey here. For myself, I am weak with relief but Hob’s back is rigid; if he were a dog, his hackles would be stiff from scruff to tail. The need to use his fists on somebody is coming off him like steam but he is not stupid, he knows his first punch would be his last. The reeve, I think, would offer us no help.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch our escort staring at Hob. His cloak, swinging thick about his calves, that knife of his, the money-bag which he insists on carrying on his belt instead of leaving it in the cart like a sensible man. It is not hard to see how the sight of him might have goaded people to anger even without Piers Alleyne’s twisting of words. It is easy to see that Slievesdon’s people think him a runaway in dead men’s clothes trying to ape his betters.

  And yet, gentlemen’s trappings or not Christiana preferred me. The thought comes to me with the sight of her house, like a punch of joy, so swift and strong it is all but pain. It was I that caught her fancy — me, in my father’s overtunic and my old hood. She preferred me.

  I stop at her toft and, despite our perilous circumstances, my cock twitches with the memory of what she and I did together. ‘I have a cart here, in the barn.’

  Thomas Legge pulls up, looks at the house, then at me. ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘Mistress Christiana was at her door as we were passing. With a man called Harry Crookshank. When he said he’d take us to the court, she said we could leave the mare and cart here.’

  ‘Did she indeed?’

  I meet his gaze but say nothing.

  ‘Then let’s see if she’s in.’