Barbara DENVIL - Blessop's Wife

Ellen’s mother wiped her hands on her apron. ‘How kind of you, my dear,’ she said. ‘But I’ve nought to give in return. Only a good, warm fire and my thanks.’ A scramble of small legs, skinny pink arms and little grasping fingers entangled her skirts. The woman lifted one wailing bundle and nodded earnestly at the other two. She wiped three pairs of eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Poor little mites are hungry, too,’ she said. ‘But my Jon can’t get work this whole year past, so we must wait for Mister Cobham to return, and hope he has a crust or more to share with us.’

‘Them’s my little brothers,’ Ellen announced. ‘The Spiers, we are. And there’s Pa Spiers by the window.’

The sleeping man did not stir as the chatter and scramble increased around him. ‘The poor soul’s exhausted with the worry,’ explained his wife. ‘Dejection can tire a man more than anything else.’

Ellen nodded cheerfully, skipping to the fireside. ‘Drew’s off working at summit or other all the time and he’s never tired. But my pa’s always wore out. So’s it’s not work as does it.’

Tyballis smiled vaguely and introduced herself. ‘It’s so nice to meet you all. But the day’s sinking, I must be off before curfew.’ No candles were lit but the unshuttered window welcomed the sky through its small square panes and the fire blazed brightly. Barely furnished, the room glowed into its empty corners, but cobwebs hung like chandeliers from the beams. Cockroaches and mice paws had pressed a pattern of sooty exploration across the fire-bright rafters.

Turning to leave, Tyballis opened the door as the departing daylight tinged the tumbling clouds crimson. Abruptly a clash of metal, scuffling feet and a shout echoed from the stairs. Someone thundered down the passage, someone else followed close behind. The shouting increased. A body crashed into Tyballis, thrust her aside and hurtled into the tranquil chamber, sudden steel catching the light. Small children scattered in all directions, Mister Spiers awoke and sat up with a mangled curse and Mistress Spiers began to wail.

The man, narrow-shouldered and urgent, tumbled headlong into Felicia Spiers’ outstretched arms and collapsed. He was bleeding from a shallow sword cut in his thigh and his breathing was laboured, his face flushed. Dropping his own sword, he sank to the ground, dragging Ellen’s mother down with him.

Tyballis saw no advantage in delaying her return home. In fact, home seemed suddenly attractive. But Davey Lyttle once again stood in her way. His scarlet doublet pressed hard against her chin, his moth-eaten badger trimming to her nose. His sword, bloodstained, was already raised. Tyballis stepped quickly back.

Davey’s grin was still in place. ‘You again? Well, girl, how are you at binding wounds?’

Mister Spiers was on his knees peering with some concern at the injured newcomer in his wife’s arms. He mumbled, ‘Ralph, is it? Is that you, Ralph? Or Nat? Never can tell you two apart. You sick, Ralph? What you doing on my floor?’

‘Bleeding,’ said the man. ‘And I’m Ralph’s brother, Nathaniel, you drunken old fool.’

‘Wouldn’t do no more bleeding if I was you,’ decided Ellen’s father. ‘Spoil Mister Cobham’s Turkey rug, it will. He won’t like it.’

‘This bugger’s heavy,’ interrupted his wife. ‘Get him off me.’

‘Allow me,’ said Davey, stepping around Tyballis and approaching the heap on the floor. He hoisted up the wounded man and dragged him to the fireside, where he let him fall. The boards vibrated. ‘Nat’s been nicking again,’ Davey continued, ‘and had his nasty little paws in my coffers. I caught him at it.’

‘Whatever I stole from you, you stole from someone else in the first place,’ objected Nat from his seat amongst the ashes. ‘Just that I’m good at picking locks, and you ain’t.’

‘You pick my locks again and I’ll pick your nose, but use my sword to do it, you little toad,’ said Davey, seating himself on the settle which Mister Spiers had reluctantly vacated. ‘I may only have scratched your scrawny leg this time but take it as a warning. Next time I’ll decorate your face.’

Felicia Spiers interrupted. ‘Ellen, run and find bandages. But I’ve no needle or thread for stitches and I’ll not cauterise the wound. I tried that with Mister Cobham’s arm once. Told me to, he did, but the smell was shocking. I near fainted.’

Davey sniggered. ‘It’s the victim supposed to faint, not the surgeon, my dear. But this silly bugger’s got no more than a tiny hole in his leg, which he proper deserves.’

Ellen ran off as directed while her three little brothers sat facing the bleeding man, their legs outstretched, knees bare beneath their damp and trailing nether cloths, thumbs in their mouths while regarding the growing red stain with silent interest. Their father remained on his knees, evidently lacking the strength or determination to rise. His wife came to crouch beside him, poking at Nat’s wound. Davey Lyttle watched with an amused lack of sympathy.

Tyballis left the chamber and hurried quietly down the stairs. The shadowed hallway below was empty. She slipped from the great house, lowering her head against the sudden cold outside. The first stars hesitated as a fitful wind blew sharply in from the sea. A strange day’s ending threatened a bleak wet night and she was far from home, wondering why she had risked so much for so little. Barely more than a mouthful of meat and gravy had tempted her, the pleading blue eyes of an unknown child, and the wearisome weight of a life always too dreary, too demanding and too much the same.

She was home in less than an hour. A thin crescent of moon-gleam quickened the deepening night, but she was not stopped by the Watch. She was, however, stopped on her own doorstep by Margery Blessop who was waiting for her – and furious.

A heaving rumble of continuous sound smothered the smaller noises. Moaning drowned out the incessant coughing and spitting of blood, while the bursting grumble of argument was louder than anything else. But there was little space for more strenuous quarrel, since the prisoners seemed woven one amongst the other, their legs entwined as they searched for comfort on the hard, damp ground. Borin, his ankles shackled and chained, spread himself amongst the huddled misery of Newgate’s Limboes. His size gained respect and no other prisoner challenged the space he took, but the irons rubbed his skin raw and dried blood matted his body. Although the filth further increased the darkness, Tyballis found him at once. Borin had always been easily distinguishable. She knelt beside him and presented the basket.

His heaving sullens were barely cowed by his surroundings, and he glowered beneath his jutting eyebrows. ‘Ma says,’ Borin began, eyeing her with aggrieved displeasure, ‘yesterday she got me a hot pie. She says you ate it. She says you was supposed to bring it to me. I says you never did. You never even come to see me. I got a chunk of black bread and half a mug of ale watered down straight from the river muck far as taste could tell, and that nigh thrown in my face by the bloody warden. I was hungry. All night I was hungry. Ma says as how you stole my pie. You know you got a beating soon as I’m out of here.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She was, too, not because of the pie, which she had enjoyed, but because of the trouble that would come of it. She unpacked her basket and spread its contents on her husband’s lap. There was fresh bread, an apple and a small hunk of cheese. She avoided his eyes. ‘I’m – very sorry.’