Barbara DENVIL - Blessop's Wife

My first love was medieval mystery, crime and romantic adventure. This all started with a fascination regarding the events and living conditions of 15th century. With great enthusiasm, I began researching this period when I was just a young child.

When I started writing some years ago, I set the books during that time, I quite quickly made the choice to translate my books into modern English. “Thou art a scoundrel,” just didn’t appeal, and no one would have wanted to read it. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to write it. However, this leaves the author with a difficulty. Do I use entirely modern words, including slang, or do I create an atmosphere of the past by introducing accurate 15th century words and situations.

I made the choice which I continue to follow in all my historical books. I have been extremely strict concerning historical accuracy in all cases where I describe the background or activities. I do not, on any page, compromise the truth regarding history.

Wording, however, is another matter. For instance, all men (without titles) were addressed as “Master –-” But this sounds odd to our ears now. Only young boys are called master now. So I have adopted modern usage. ‘Mr. Brown,” has taken over from ‘Master Brown”. It’s just easier to read. I have used some old words (Medick instead of doctor for instance) but on the whole my books remain utterly historically accurate, but with wording mostly translated into modern terminology, which can be understood today, and hopefully allow for a more enjoyable read.

I was once criticised for saying that something had been bleached. (I didn’t imply that they went to the local supermarket and bought a plastic bottle of the stuff, paying on credit card). But yes, in that age bleaching was a common practise. They used various methods including sunshine and urine. But it was bleaching all the same.

Indeed, nowadays most writers of historical fiction follow this same methodology.

I would love to know your opinions on this, so do please get in touch.

He reached out from the shadows and grabbed her. His torn fingernails splayed across her nose and cheeks as his thumb pinched up beneath her chin, dragging her towards him. Her eyes watered, blurring his snarl. His hand was scabby and smelled of shit where he’d scratched his arse, and of sour lard where he’d wiped his platter, of bile where he’d spat, and of snot where he’d snuffled onto his cuff.

She allowed his grip without struggle, obedient to her husband’s demands. Then he shoved, sending her back against the wall. She huddled and waited, watching him, silent as he undid his belt. He gripped the long leather tongue, flexing it across his knee. Quickly he spun it out. The buckled end slashed across her mouth. Then she ran.

It was raining, a fine mist of drizzle that wove soft through the twilight. The last words, drunken slurred, faded as the door slammed back in his face, ‘You whore. Come –’

Knowing he would follow, she gathered up her skirts and ran towards the river, keeping to the side lanes and across the shadowed churchyards. She made for the bridge, which he would not expect for she was frightened of the high tide; had good reason, and he knew it. Borin would try every other direction before he guessed right, and by then he would have snorted, cursed and trudged back into the warm.

Beneath the overhang down by the river’s edge, the old stone dripped condensation and the bridge’s first soaring pillar was wet against her back, drenching the shoulders of her gown. The usual bustle and traffic was quiet, London’s gates long locked and the houses along the bridge’s length were quiet. A cold night, a wet night; London’s citizens slept. The rain was swollen with ice and the long grey angle of uninterrupted sleet now closed in the sky. Although the Thames ran turgid, a muffled silence rested patiently behind the insistent sounds of the weather. She hoped her own frantic breathing and the pound of her heartbeat would be heard only by herself. Crouching down, she became part of the gloom.

For a long time the rain fell and the river waters rose, the sky darkened and the night crept into the spaces the evening had left behind.

She was almost asleep when a voice said, ‘You are in my way, little one.’

Tyballis felt a wave of nausea followed by fear. But it was not Borin’s voice. She peered up and tried to answer. Her knees, squeezed into the little crannies where she had pushed them hours before, were now stiff and would not unfold. She dug her fingers into the cracks between the stones and hauled herself upwards. Her voice, when she discovered it, was only a whisper. ‘Your way, sir?’ She looked back at the heaving riverbank to her left. ‘My apologies. Are you a boatman, sir?’

Seemingly part of the starless night, he was huge and shapeless as though he carried something so large it rearranged his silhouette. She thought she heard him chuckle but it might have been the gurgle of the tide. ‘Neither a sir nor a gentleman. And not a wherryman, no, child. But stay where you are. I’ll find another way and another place.’

‘I– I’m sorry.’ Dizzy and chilled, Tyballis stumbled, steadying herself against the great pillar. ‘I shall leave at once, if you’ll give me a moment, sir.’

The hand came out of the darkness. Accustomed to the dangers of an unexpected fist, she backed until the stone blocked her retreat. But it wasn’t Borin’s hand any more than it had been his voice, and she was not knocked down but held up. ‘Steady, steady.’ The hand was long-fingered, unclean and surprisingly strong. ‘You’ve a face more tear-streaked and bruised than any child should be wearing. You’re hiding, then.’

‘I was. I am.’ She still couldn’t see the man who spoke, although it seemed he could see her. She mumbled, ‘But I can’t hide from him forever.’

The dark voice said, ‘Do you dream, child?’ though gave her no time to answer. ‘Better not,’ he continued. ‘It’s a grand gallantry of the human soul to dream, and believe in hope. But experience is a grim teacher. Go home, little one, and deal with your bastard father. Or is he your husband? A father’s hand is said to be any child’s destiny, but a husband is more easily avoided. He could be left. Or something – perhaps – more permanent.’

She was shivering and could barely stand. It was too wet and too cold and too late. ‘I’d like to leave him. I’d run away, but I don’t know where to run to.’

Something bumped down by her feet, long, narrow and rolled in oilcloth; the parcel as indistinct as its bearer. It was so heavy that in falling, it shook the ground. Tyballis again lurched backwards. Now more clearly recognisable as a man, without his burden his breath became gentler and the voice lighter. ‘Never run. Keep your pride and walk,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘It’s your husband is the danger, then? And sons?’

‘No children yet,’ she whispered. It was an odd intimacy with a stranger she could not see and would never recognise again. The river was shrinking as the tide slunk low, but Tyballis knew her small cracked shoes and the hem of her gown were already sodden. Then she felt the blissful warmth of something wrapped around her shoulders. The smell of sweat and grime was momentarily pungent, then fading into the general riverside stench. ‘I can’t take this,’ she said.