Kate Sedley - The Wicked Winter

The widow's face was by now scarlet with rage, and I couldn't altogether blame her. Dame Judith should not have aired the family linen before a passing stranger, as Mistress Lynom now roundly told her.

'You're a prattling, meddling, evil old shrew who deserves a ducking! How dare you discuss my affairs like this in front of a pedlar! You have a loose tongue, and one day it will get you into serious trouble.' She bent down, breathing hard and short, advancing her congested face to within an inch of the older woman's. 'It could even be the death of you, so be careful.' I must have made an inarticulate sound of protest, for the widow straightened herself abruptly, realising how her words might be interpreted. 'What I mean is,' she floundered, 'you can't gossip about people without making enemies, and sitting by that open window of a morning you see too much of your neighbours' business.'

It was a lame apology for her threatening attitude and had no relevance to Dame Judith's recent revelations. The old lady looked cowed, however, and seemed anxious to make her peace.

'I know, I know,' she mumbled. 'My tongue runs away with me at times. But the chapman won't pass on what he's heard, will you, lad? You don't appear to me to be the chattering kind.'

'Mistress Lynom's affairs are none of mine,' I answered briskly. 'I promise I shan't repeat anything you've said.'

'There you are, Ursula,' her mother-in-law pleaded. 'I can recognise a good man when I see one, so you'll let him stop and talk to me for a while, won't you? You know how starved of company and news of the outside world we are during the winter months.'

I could tell from the expression on Ursula Lynom's face that she would have liked to order me off the manor at once, but she was sensible enough to see that such conduct might antagonise me into breaking my word. So she said, with as much grace as she could muster, 'You're welcome to remain with my mother-in-law for a little, Chapman, and afterwards you may go to the kitchen and tell Jane Cook to give you some dinner.' Her eyes strayed to the goods displayed on the top of the coffer, coming to rest on a set of silver buttons, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. One long, slender hand reached out and fingered them. 'They're beautiful. I'll have them whatever their price. You may go to the counting-house when you've finished here and collect your money.' The door of the solar closed behind her and Dame Judith let out a sigh of relief.

'She'll give those buttons to Hugh Cederwell,' she mourned, and then, in childlike fashion, clapped a scrawny hand over her mouth. 'There I go again. She's right to be angry with me, you know, although I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting it. My tongue does run away with me, but gossiping's my only pleasure nowadays. It's hard, Chapman, being a dependant in a house where you once wore the keys at your belt and had the running of it all.'

I agreed that indeed it must be, and placed several items which I thought she might like immediately in front of her, in order to distract her mind from its woes. In the end, she bought a pair of enamelled girdle tags and a length of fine lace, but that was all, suddenly losing interest in the proceedings. Like all old people she tired swiftly and easily, falling asleep without warning. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, I packed away the rest of my wares, took what had been purchased downstairs to the counting-house, where the household treasurer paid me my dues, and then made my way back to the kitchen.

'Where do you go from here?' Bet asked as we finished the stewed mutton and apple pasties which made up the lesser servants' dinner. (The chickens had been served in the dining hall, leaving the tantalising smell of onions and sage and cinnamon to linger on in the kitchen.)

'l hope to get as far as Cederwell Manor, where I shall beg a fireside corner for the night. How far would you reckon it to be from here?'

'Two mile. Maybe more,' Bet said with a stifled giggle. 'An hour's good walking.'

The other three kitchen-maids and the pot-boy were also suppressing sniggers which the mention of Cederwell Manor had prompted, one eye on the cook as if fearful that she might admonish them. But although she failed to join in their general merriment, she did no more than remain aloof.

'You'd better get started as soon as you've eaten, Chapman,' she advised. 'It'll take you more'n an hour at a steady pace, and the ground's treacherous at this season. Moreover, snow's been threatening all day and I reckon it'll start to fall before evening.' She went to the kitchen door and stared out. 'Sky's full of it. Grey as a shroud. When it does come, it's going to be heavy.'

'How do I get there? To Cederwell Manor?'

'Where'd you come from? North from Woodspring? This is the Woodspring road.'

I shook my head. 'No, south from the main pack-horse track which runs along the high ground from Bristol to the mouth of the Severn.'

Jane Cook came back and sat down again at the kitchen table.

'Then retrace your steps to the junction of the two roads and turn westwards when you get there. Keep walking and you're bound, sooner or later, to arrive at the manor. But a word of warning.' She cupped her chin in her hands. 'Don't ask for Lady Cederwell. She'll not be interested in any fripperies you might be hoping to sell. I'm told she wears a plain wooden cross on a string about her neck and that is her only adornment. As for household necessaries, you might as well deal directly with Sir Hugh's housekeeper, Phillipa Talke, who's run the manor for him since Master Maurice was born and left motherless, the poor little lamb.' Bet sucked her fingers clean of the last vestiges of food.

'My cousin, Audrey Lambspringe — who's maid to Lady Cederwell,' she added for my benefit, ' — says Mistress Talke was hoping to marry Sir Hugh herself one day.' Jane Cook snorted but, somewhat to my surprise, did not discourage this idle chatter. But then she, too, I supposed, must find winter in such an isolated homestead as dull as everyone else.

One of the other kitchen-maids observed with a giggle, 'She's waited a mighty long time then with nothin' t' show fer it. An' now 'e's married again.' She lowered her voice and glanced furtively over her shoulder to make sure that none of the upper servants was within earshot. 'An' what about our own mistress? If anythin' were to 'appen to Lady Cederwell, I reckon she'd 'ave first bite o' the cherry, not Mistress Talke.'

'She's 'avin' more'n 'er fair share o' bites already,' the pot-boy put in, reducing them all, including Jane Cook, to helpless laughter.

I decided it was time to be on my way if I was to arrive at Cederwell Manor before darkness fell, and which at that time of year descended in mid-afternoon. The female servants had chosen what they wanted from my pack before the meal, so there was nothing further to detain me. I therefore said my farewells and left. Passing the stables on my way out, I paused to glance inside, hoping to wish Hamon and Jasper goodbye, but they were nowhere to be seen. Nor, now I came to think of it, had they been at dinner. I reflected that perhaps they were permanently banned by Jane Cook from eating indoors because, as she had pointed out earlier, they smelled too much of horses. But as I was about to set foot on the drawbridge, I was forced to beat a hurried retreat in order to avoid Hamon, mounted on Jessamine, the raw-boned grey. Horse and rider came clattering across the wooden slats as though Old Scratch himself were after them, and both, by their appearance, in a lather. At the same moment, Jasper materialised from somewhere behind the stables, inquiring in a whisper, 'Did all go well?'

Hamon was already sliding from the saddle, tossing the mare's reins to his fellow groom as he did so.

'Here, stable her and rub her down. I must go speak to my lady.'