Kate Sedley - The Wicked Winter

The goodwives of this isolated community were as warmly welcoming as their sisters had been elsewhere, and so overpowering was their hospitality that I eventually found myself forced to refuse some of the food and drink being pressed upon me. I wondered briefy if I were sickening from one of those ailments so common in winter months, but there are, after all, only so many oatcakes and so many stoups of ale that anyone can eat and drink within a certain time. And after an hour or so I had reached my limit, reluctant as I was to say so.

The last place I visited was the home of the miller and his wife where I lingered unduly, eventually allowing myself to be persuaded to stop to dinner. I had intended to press forward while the weather held, for several of the village greybeards, country-wise in all such matters, had predicted snow within the next few hours, and before that happened I wished to find shelter where my presence would prove less of an embarrassment were I to be holed up there for many days.

These people were poor, and the addition of an extra mouth to feed for more than a single meal would quickly deplete their store of winter provisions.

But the miller and his wife had a daughter, a pretty, dark-haired girl with sparkling black eyes and a buxom figure who, I was certain, must attract the local youths like bees to heather. She was the most attractive young woman I had seen for quite a while, and although there could not possibly be anything between us — apart from the accidental brushing of hands and touching of feet beneath the table — it was nevertheless a pleasure just to sit and watch her eager face bent over the contents of my pack. She fingered the ribbons longingly and tried to cajole her mother into buying one, but the goodwife was adamant in her refusal.

'We can't afford it, child, and that's a fact. And it's no good appealing to your father,' she added as the miller, dusty with flour, came in from the mill, ravenous for his dinner. 'He'll tell you the same.' And she glared threateningly at her husband, daring him to gainsay her authority.

The miller tousled his daughter's head regretfully, but tried to make the best of things.

'What occasions do you have, lass, for the wearing of such finery? I doubt if that great lout, Mark Wilson, will think you any the prettier for a ribbon in your hair. He's besotted enough already.'

The girl looked so crestfallen that I pushed the bundle of ribbons towards her.

'Here, choose one,' I said. 'It will pay for my dinner.' Her delight, and the more restrained but no less warmly expressed gratitude of her parents, amply rewarded me for the loss of the ribbon's value, even though she selected an expensive one of dark red silk which I had purchased from a Portuguese merchantman, anchored in the Backs, before I left Bristol. Moreover, the two bowls of fish stew (it being a Friday) which I ate, washed down by several cups of homemade ale, made up for any regrets I might have harboured for my impulsive gesture.

The two women were anxious for news of the outside world, and the information that I had been in London as late its last September was greeted with breathless inquiries regarding anything to do with the court. Had I ever seen the King? Or the Queen? Or any member of the royal family? What were the latest London fashions? Was it true that the women there painted their faces with white lead? At this point the miller snorted and remarked thickly through a mouthful of stew that much good it would do either of them to know the answers to such questions, but that did not deter his wife and daughter. The set of a sleeve, the shape of a bodice, the fall of a skirt were as meat and drink to them here, in their isolated little world.

I disclaimed any detailed knowledge of, or indeed any interest in, the subject of women's fashion; but as for the rest, and as with Brother Simeon, there was a great deal I could have told them had I been so minded. However, it was doubtful that they would have believed me even had I felt at liberty to do so. Instead, I satisfied their curiosity with a story about the Duke of Clarence who, sitting on a Commission of Oyer and Terminer in Westminster Hall, noticed that the Mayor had nodded off during the proceedings. My lord had thereupon observed jeeringly to the next witness, 'Speak softly, sir, for His Worship is asleep!' A remark which had caused near rioting in the streets. 'For no one, not the King himself, can insult the Mayor of London and get away with it. The Londoners won't stand for it. Their Mayor and Aldermen mean more to them than any member of the royal family, and the Corporation's dignity and rights are jealously guarded. In the end, the Duke had humbly to beg Mayor Owlgrave's pardon — but only after King Edward had intervened and ordered his brother to make his apologies.'

'They say there's little love lost between King Edward and the Lord Clarence,' the miller's wife put in. 'At least, that's the gossip that reaches our ears from passing travellers.'

I thought about this. At last I answered carefully, 'He surely doesn't have the regard for him that he does for Prince Richard, and he certainly doesn't trust him. But that's not surprising considering the number of times that Prince George has turned his coat. Yet the King has also forgiven him on an equal number of occasions, so I'd reckon he must be fond of him. Indeed, I'd say that there's a strong bond of affection between all three royal brothers.'

The miller laid down his spoon and looked thoughtfully at me across the table. 'You seem remarkably well informed for a chapman.'

I had grown so accustomed to this accusation that I had my answer ready and replied easily, 'No more than any other man who listens to alehouse tattle and is aware of what's happening in the world around him. I'm capable of drawing my own conclusions with the best of them, though they might not agree with those of Hob or Jack.'

Fortunately my host seemed happy with this explanation.

He cut a slab of ewe's milk cheese and crammed it into his mouth, thus making any further conversation with him impossible for several minutes. I rose to my feet.

'I must be on my way,' I said, going to the door and glancing up at the sky. 'Judging by the position of the sun, it's less than an hour short of noon, and the days draw in so quickly at this time of year. How far is the nearest village to this, if I continue travelling westward?'

The miller's wife joined me at the door, but before she could make answer our attention was diverted by the sound of hoofs, and then two horses and their riders came splashing through the icy stream. The animals snorted, tossing their heads, their breath hanging on the air in clouds of steam.

Feet slithered on the frozen grasses as the men drew rein and slid, shivering, to the ground.

They were both clothed in warm but modest homespun and wrapped against the cold in thick frieze cloaks. Their boots, although well worn, were of leather, come by, I guessed, at second or third-hand. Round, well-fed faces were at present nipped and pinched by the biting wind, but sturdy limbs and the beginning of a paunch on the shorter of the two suggested a master who nourished and looked after his servants. Both men were young, about my own age, and had the dark Celtic colouring of the Welsh, a common enough occurrence along the borders between England and Wales, where the two races have met and mingled for centuries. But when they spoke it was in the flat, rough-edged tones of their Saxon forefathers; true Wessex men.

The slightly older and thinner of the pair addressed the miller's wife.

'We're lookin' fer Friar Simeon. Has he been 'ere? We know 'im to be in these parts.'

It was the miller himself who answered, having joined us at the door.

'The friar were here more'n a week since. Why? Who wants t' know?'