Alys Clare: Blood of the South

The sheriff, the veiled woman, the baker and his friend and I strode on, past the port officials’ house and over the Great Bridge. Once or twice the woman stumbled – she didn’t seem much better at walking than she was at holding her baby – and each time the nearest deputy reached out a hand to steady her. I noticed that she didn’t thank him.

Suddenly I knew what was the matter with her. The costly blanket and garments in which the baby was wrapped should have given me a hint, and, now that I had belatedly realized, her own cloak and richly decorated headdress supported my conclusion. I glanced down at her feet: she was wearing soft little boots in a gorgeous purplish-blue shade, the leather so shiny and supple that it looked like a second skin.

She was, of course, a rich woman. Rich woman weren’t called upon to do much for themselves; other people set out their clothes, helped them into the garments, fetched horses or carriages to transport them, tended and carried their babies. For some reason, the veiled woman was here alone with her child, separated by some mischance from husband, kin and servants. No wonder she seemed so ill-equipped for managing the world on her own; usually, she never had to.

Smiling to myself, proud of my astute summing-up of the situation, I followed the sheriff, the veiled woman and the more senior of the deputies as we walked on. We passed the large plot where a vast gang of men were busy building the new priory, and then turned to stride up Castle Hill to the intimidating wooden structure crowning its summit. Our little procession made its way up a steep, narrow walkway made of stout planks that led to the castle’s first-floor entrance, and, my heart in my mouth, I stepped from the sunshine into the chilly, dimly lit interior. The baker and his companion shuffled in behind us, and the last of the deputies slammed the door.

We were in a stone-walled anteroom. It looked as if it was the sort of place where lesser men filter callers, dealing with minor matters themselves so that the man at the top isn’t constantly bothered by trivialities. The veiled woman settled herself elegantly on the only seat: a bench set against the wall opposite the door. She spread the wide skirts of her cloak around her so that anyone else wishing to sit down would have had to move them out of the way. She made no move to take her son from me, so I held on to him. He was sleeping soundly now, and it would have been a shame to risk waking him by transferring him to those inept, inexpert arms.

The sheriff ran his hands through his light brown close-cropped hair – some of the mud thrown at the veiled woman had missed its mark – and then opened a solid-looking door studded with iron, disappearing under a low arch that presumably led through to his inner sanctum. I heard voices: his, and another; the other man sounded at first irritated, then downright cross. Finally he yelled, ‘Christ’s bones, Chevestrier, you deal with it! It’s what I pay you for! It’s only a matter of one fucking bun!’

Instantly I realized my mistake. Of course. If I’d stopped to think about it, I would have known full well that the man on the quayside wasn’t the sheriff of Cambridge. He was too young, for one thing; only a handful of years older than me; and, for another, the sheriff was hardly likely to have abandoned the cosy shelter of his private quarters to hurry outside on a chilly morning to attend to a minor rumpus over the alleged theft of a small loaf. No. Picot – for that was the sheriff’s name – was a self-serving, sly and reputedly deeply corrupt man, who our local monks referred to variously as a hungry lion, a prowling wolf, a dog without shame and a filthy swine: to a man, the monks did not approve of Picot. It was said – mainly by the monks – that he deprived the local populace of their rights to some of the common pasture, which he had appropriated for himself. Such actions do not win a man approbation, when so many go hungry to their beds at night. Assuming they have a bed …

The man I had believed to be the sheriff, and whom I now knew to be called Chevestrier, returned to the anteroom. He must have been aware that we’d all overheard Picot shouting at him, but, far from being disconcerted, he was smiling to himself. He closed the heavy wooden door with exaggerated care, as if intent on saving Picot any further interruption, then turned to the rest of us and said, ‘The sheriff sends his apologies, but he is busy on important matters of state. He has entrusted this business to me.’ He added something under his breath; I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like, One fucking bun ought to be within my competence. From the quirk that twisted his well-shaped mouth, I guessed he was suppressing a chuckle.

He turned to the baker. ‘Now, will you tell me what this woman stole from you?’

The baker looked at the veiled woman, posed on the rough bench as if she were a queen on a throne and staring at the baker with cold eyes as if she would like to condemn him to the deepest dungeon. ‘Er-’ he faltered. His companion gave him a nudge, hissing something in his ear. ‘That’s right!’ he said pugnaciously, recovering a bit of his original umbrage. ‘I told her how much them little loaves cost, and she paid me for a single piece, then bugger me if she didn’t pick up a second one!’ He nodded for emphasis, glaring round at the assembled company. One or two of the deputies were grinning. Chevestrier, however, seemed to have conquered his amusement.

He stared at the baker. His eyes, I noticed, were a bright, clear shade of green, untouched by blue or brown. He frowned in thought, then said, ‘She picked up a second loaf, you said?’

‘Yes, that’s right!’ the baker said, indignant all over again. ‘Blatant-like, with no attempt at all to cover it up!’

Chevestrier nodded, as if something had just been proved to his satisfaction. ‘Is that how thieves normally operate?’ he asked quietly.

I began to see what he was doing. The baker, however, did not. ‘No, it’s not!’ he replied hotly. ‘Normally they sneak things off my stall when my back’s turned, or they get some guttersnipe accomplice to attract my attention, and often I only realize I’ve been robbed when I stop to count up at the end of … Oh.’

Realization, it seemed, had struck.

‘I think,’ Chevestrier said kindly to the baker, ‘that you may have acted a little hastily. Which is quite understandable,’ he added swiftly, as the baker’s face began to redden with angry embarrassment. ‘My lady -’ he spun round to face the veiled woman – ‘will you give your word that you made a genuine mistake? That you believed you had paid for two loaves, when you had in fact only paid for one?’

The veiled woman twitched her head to one side, as if she was heartily sick of the matter. She gave a graceful shrug. ‘It is as you say,’ she said dismissively.

‘And are you now prepared to pay for the second loaf?’ Chevestrier went on.

She shrugged again, then, reaching under her cloak to a beautiful, bejewelled little leather purse that hung from her belt, she shook out a couple of coins and flung them at the baker’s feet.

It was a disdainful, insulting action.

Chevestrier clearly thought so too. ‘And maybe,’ he said silkily, ‘if you were to add a small consideration for the good baker’s inconvenience, he might be persuaded not to press charges against you and let this unfortunate business drop.’

It might have sounded like a mild suggestion rather than an order, but I don’t think anyone was fooled. The veiled woman certainly wasn’t; she shot Chevestrier a look from those dark eyes that would have sent a superstitious man grabbing for his rosary. But then she extracted another coin, and this time, with Chevestrier still watching her, she got up and placed it in the baker’s hand.