She was now outside the postern entrance to the yard behind the shop, still thinking of wine tallies as she slipped the key into the gate and pressed her shoulder to it. The bolt gave way more heavily than usual – as though something blocked it. The gate partially swung in, and she collided with her father.
“Emma!” Richard started, one hand still on the iron latch, the other flat against the post as though she had caught him in some private act. His face was flushed red – as red as the coopers’ fire embers smouldering in the yard behind him. For a moment he bent again, rattling the latch with unnecessary force, as though trying to prove his errand.
“You gave me a fright,” Emma said, steadying herself. “What are you doing out here?”
He straightened at once, brushing imaginary dirt from his sleeve.
“The bolt, daughter. I thought… I mean, I heard rumour of a robbery nearby. We can’t be too careful. Best I check it… myself.”
Emma frowned, glancing at the latch. “Is there a problem with it?”
Richard caught her look as she moved to inspect it.
“No… Inside, quickly. Did you not hear the bells? The Benedictines are ringing Compline. Curfew will soon be upon us. Tell Ned to shutter the door.”
She raised her brows. “I always do.”
“Then all the more reason not to tarry.” He pressed her shoulder with a little too much urgency and turned away as though suddenly preoccupied with some trifle in the yard.
Emma shook her head, half amused, half troubled. Compline had yet to ring – she was certain of it. How can he mistake the bells? She glanced back at him, still standing at the gate, watching the lane. Waiting for someone? She pushed the thought aside and entered the shop.
The smell of wine lees and damp oak settled around her. The last of the daylight lingered at the window, streaks of red slipping between the barrels. The shop was half-shadow, half-glow, full of hulking casks that seemed to press in blocking out the light.
Ned had been in her Father’s service since before she drew breath. He was more of a confidant to her father, than a mere servant – loyal to a flaw. He stood at the counting table with a tinderbox, coaxing sparks onto a twist of tow. He muttered as the spark caught, blew carefully, then touched the flame to a horn lantern. The glow caught the faint creases at his brow. He lit a pair of tallow candles, set one near the tallies and another at the base of the stairs to Fenwick Hall.
Emma laid her cloak across a stool, but her mind was still in the yard – the fluster in her Father’s eyes, his hand on the latch.
“Ned… ?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Father, he was at the postern gate just now, fiddling at the bolt. Strange behaviour. He knows I always see to it before curfew and it not yet Benedictine Compline … And now, just staring at the entrance as if… as if expecting our Lord God Himself to appear!”
Ned’s hand jerked. The little cask he was carrying slipped, thumping against the floor with a hollow crack. The sound rang through the room like a drum, dust jumping from the rushes. Emma startled and hurried forward, kneeling to help him roll it upright again. Together they wrestled it up the stack, both panting as it finally settled. She ran her palm over the stave, half-expecting to feel a crack.
“Christ’s mercy,” Ned said, too loudly. “Near lost it altogether… Best not to dwell on Master’s habits. He’s got cares enough. A man will pace at gates when his mind’s heavy. Think no more on it, Mistress.”
Emma searched his face, uneasy. “You sound as though you know what weighs on him.”
But Ned moved to the door to start closing the shop as if he wanted no more talk of her father.
“Where did you and the goodwife wander?” he asked, louder than seemed necessary.
Emma hesitated. “Up Corn Strete. We stopped by the cook-shops and shared a piping hot pie. You should see us – like young urchins we were.” Smiling. “Crumbs, and grease everywhere. I fear Margery’s bright finery will need some scrubbing when she gets home.”
“Oh Lord. I am sure you were all a sight and no mistake. It was a good day to be out. You need out more often and not worry yourself. Master Richard is fine – I warrant…”
Ned continued “Did you continue along to Pithay Gate? Rumour is, a new wine merchant has bought a small house outside the wall.”
“Surely not. What a place – there is little coin along Pithay Strete.”
“You are right, Mistress, rumour is rumour… idle tongues.”
“Mistress Margery dragged me to the goldsmiths along Brode…”
“Goldsmiths…” Ned let out a strangled croak before half recovering. “Did she? Yes, a bright place to stroll.”
For the space of three heartbeats the only sound was the hiss of tallow. Then he straightened, brushing his hands down his tunic. His tone was too composed, too quick. “The goldsmiths always lay out fine things. Good to take your mind from ledgers.”
She tilted her head. “Do you think me too fixed on ledgers?”
Ned busied himself with shifting a stool, avoiding her gaze. “Only saying you work harder than most. Harder than Master… sometimes.”
Emma crossed to the counting table, fingers tracing the neat rows of numbers. “Then you’ve noticed it too. Father’s tallies slip. Sometimes the sums grow larger than they should. As though we sell more than we bought.”
Ned barked a laugh – sharp, nervous. “The wine trade, Mistress. Full of arrangements. You know how it is – favours given, favours owed. Tallies keep changing, been like that all my life. Best not to trouble yourself with it.”
“Arrangements?” Emma’s voice cooled. “What arrangements?”
“Nothing improper, Mistress. Just… guild business. Men’s affairs.”
Ned bent over his pallet in the corner, pulling out his blanket roll – forcing an end to the conversation. He had always made his bed in the shop corner – “safer for it,” he used to say, “a thief will always test a shutter first.” Now, though, it felt to Emma like he wanted her gone early, tucked away, leaving him master even though it was still light outside.
She gathered a sheaf of vellum from the table, tucked her quill and knife under her arm, preferring the natural light in the hall upstairs to the flickering candle flame in the shop. “God be with you tonight, Ned. Leave those casks till the morrow.”
He bobbed his head, still readjusting some casks for display. “And you, Mistress.”
Emma set her hand to the stair post, listening to the sound echo through the strete. She thought of Margery hurrying across the bridge.
She climbed the narrow stair wondering at both Ned’s and her Father’s strangeness.
The hall was quiet, the fire on the hearth sunk to embers. Emma bent over her ledger, quill scratching, no need yet for candle. She preferred the outside light, even twilight, to the flickering candle that often caused head pains. The day almost done.
Below, she heard the shutters of the shop being barred and the strete outside hushed… save for a drunkard singing somewhere near the bridge and the faint lap of the Avon. In the distance, the Benedictines rang their Compline bell – presaging the end of the day; summoning their faithful to prayer before dark. Time for reflection.
Emma returned to her clerical duties. In the tallying she saw that one of the final two tuns was marked as spoilt, due to seawater. She was annoyed, because this shipment was of high quality wine. She pondered – who will pay for this loss? and, despite herself, smiled wryly – it is just as well that we have so many ‘free hogsheads’. This started a new path of thought, a new matter to ponder. Where do these ghost hogsheads come from? Are Father and Ned… hmmm… No, surely not. Still, I wonder how many ‘free’ we have received over the last year? When did it start?
She settled again, poring over previous shipments, tallying on her sheet as she went.
The loud banging on the door gave her an unbidden start. Her quill skidded across the parchment and blotted the neat column of figures she had been tallying. She muttered under her breath, scattered blotting-sand across the smudge. Probably someone drunk going ho…
“Master! Master!” Ned’s voice rose from below, edged with alarm.
Her hand went instinctively to the small dagger she now kept close – a habit born of grief and necessity since her husband’s death. No honest business comes calling at this hour, not with curfew almost upon us.
Then came a crash – the sound of casks toppling, wood splintering, a body flailing into the barrels.
“Help!” Ned’s shout rang sharp, strident, leaving no doubt of the urgency.
Emma threw on her woollen cloak and hurried down the narrow stairs, her bare feet silent on the worn oak steps. Father’s door, she noticed, remained firmly shut, though surely even he must have heard.
She found Ned struggling with a stranger half-draped over some fallen barrels.
His fine clothes were dark with blood, his breathing laboured and wet. He tried to rise, failed, and collapsed amongst the scattered rushes on the floor, pulling Ned down on top of him.
“Sweet Mary,” Ned whispered as he freed himself. “Is… is he dead?”
Emma knelt beside the stranger, her healer’s instincts taking hold. Blood seeped through his tunic – a deep wound to the belly. She pressed her hands against the gash, feeling the warmth of life ebbing away beneath her fingers.
“Fetch father. Quickly.”
The stranger’s eyes fluttered open. Dark eyes, intelligent, desperate. Pain etched deep lines across his sallow skin.
He grasped Emma’s cloak with the iron-fist grip of a dying man and pulled her down close.
“I’m done… Tell… her…”
“Who, sir?”
His breath came in shallow gasps. “Tell her… love her… I did it… for her…”
“Sir, who am I to tell?” But his eyes had closed, his breathing so shallow Emma could scarce see any movement. She put her lips close to his ear. “Please, sir… who do I tell?”
With a great effort, he whispered, “Catherine …”
His hand fell to the rush-covered floor – lifeless.
Emma sat back on her heels, staring at the stranger’s still face. His final word hung in the air like an unanswered prayer. Ned stood rooted to the spot, shock on his face.
“Ned! Fetch father… Now!” But Ned seemed unsure, glancing at the still open doorway. Uncharacteristically, he went and closed the door, after looking out on the strete.
“Ned man, what is wrong with you? Fetch father from his room, we are late for Hue and Cry… NOW… Hurry!”
Emma studied the stranger’s face. Even in death he was handsome, with the bearing of one well-born, though his ink-stained doublet and soft hands spoke more of a clerk’s desk than of sword or plough.
But why had he stumbled in here? Fate, perchance, or had he sought them out deliberately?
And in that moment, echoes of her husband’s own bloody end came rushing back, raw and sharp. No one cared. Stabbed on a distant quay, they say.
Her father stumbled down the stairs, worried creases etched across his face, with Ned close behind him.
“What… what in heaven’s name, Emma?”
“Father… we have a murder.” The shock had passed; now a cold terror bubbled inside her at the thought of having watched a man die before her eyes.”
“A what!”
“Yes, Master, that is true,” Ned added quickly. “He collapsed in the door, nearly poleaxed me he did, sir. Stabbed like… fairly put my heart cross-ways it did.”
As her father came over to inspect the body, he stopped short. His face blanched, and a strangled sound escaped his throat.
Ned stepped in quickly, his voice too loud in the stillness.
“Looks like he was set on, master… outside on strete?”
Fenwick drew a shaky breath, nodding perhaps too eagerly. “Yes… yes, of course… a stranger… on the strete” His eyes flicked once more to the dead man’s face before turning to Emma.
“Is he known to you?”
“No father… but when…”
Her reply was cut short by Ned, who hurriedly spoke over her, his words too quick, too eager.
“That is right, sir. There was a bang on the door – I think he fell against the door and then fell on me when I opened it. A complete stranger, Master”
It seemed strained to Emma. Forced? What is Ned trying to say? Her father and Ned cast sidelong glances, as if trying to convey a secret message. She arose from her kneeling position, slowly, wary of breaking the strange stillness.
Suddenly, the spell was broken by Richard.
“Ned.” Richard drew him aside, speaking low. Emma caught only fragments – something about the errand, the hour. She saw her father press coins into Ned’s palm, more than a simple message would warrant. Ned nodded once, his face unreadable.
“Quickly now – as fast as your feet can carry you. Inform Coroner Bale immediately of the death.”
Ned grabbed his old cloak and was gone into the night.
Her father ran his hands through his thinning hair. “Emma, you stay here and keep vigil over… him. I must start the Hue and Cry – although it’s probably already too late.”
Her father stayed rooted to the spot, apparently unwilling or unable to move.
“Father!”
Stunned out of his reverie, he rushed outside. Moments later Emma could hear him banging on neighbouring doors, shouting, “Out! Out! Out! Murder!” The cry was taken up along the Strete, even the dogs joining the clamour. A cacophony of shouts, questions and curses coursed through the ward, causing uproar.
Amongst the cacophony of sounds the curfew bell could be heard as if emphasising the dreadful deed. It was short-lived. Soon even the murmured fragments of conversation died down to the quiet of the night.
Emma sat on a low stool beside the stranger, talking quietly to herself.
“Is there a loved one waiting patiently for you to come home? Is that your Catherine?”
She studied his still face in the candlelight. “Who are you, stranger? A foreigner perhaps, from one of the ships moored along the docks?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Your voice was local – from Bristol itself.”
The obligation settled on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. Less than a year past, another man she loved had died with no justice sought – none could even say where he had died. She would not let this one be forgotten too. At first light, I will find your Catherine and bring her the sad news. But what news exactly? That you died whispering her name? That you did something for her – something you are sorry for, something that had cost you your life perhaps? But the stranger had no answers to give – only silence.
“Mistress Emma?”
She started, pulled from her reverie by the arrival of Father Jerome.
“Father Jerome… I… I’m sorry, I never thought to send for you.” Emma felt her cheeks burn, hoping he had not overheard her private thoughts. Must be more careful, she chided herself.
The priest rushed to the body, breathless. He almost shoved Emma aside in his haste, bending down to check for any sign of life – no breathing, no beating heart.
“There is still heat in him. His soul has not deserted him – we have time.”
“Thank God,” Emma whispered, fearful she might have doomed the stranger’s soul through her forgetfulness. A familiar ache of loneliness pressed in on her. His words echoed: his soul has not deserted him – we have time. She savoured the words a moment. Familiar. Why? Why does that tug so sharply? She thought.
From beneath his robes, Father Jerome took a candle, a small silver pyx with holy oil, and a crucifix which he held over the body. “Bring me a taper to light the candle.”
Glad to be active, Emma found a taper and lit it from the glowing embers. She knelt beside the priest, hands clasped in apparent prayer, thinking – but her thoughts slipped away, to a wet dockside in France, to the bowels of a Cog bringing her beloved, as he bled his life away… amongst strangers… alone. She took a slow breath. Be still, woman. You are mistress of this house – act like one. Pray for the poor man’s soul.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”
As Father Jerome intoned the prayers of extreme unction in Latin, Emma wished she were anywhere else – out with the Hue and Cry, searching for the murderer. She felt the anger boil within her. Oblivious, the priest continued in a monotone, occasionally raising his voice and startling her.
Despite her best efforts, her mind soon wandered. That recent scar over his right eye – pity, he might be handsome without it. Perhaps he has been in a fight recently? I wonder where and with whom? Hmmm…
She was suddenly brought back by the quietness. Did I miss something? Forget to answer? She opened one eye carefully and squinted left. Father Jerome was opening the small silver pyx, using the holy oil to anoint the stranger – eyes, ears, mouth… he was being methodical about it.
The questions itched inside her brain – who is he? Was he coming here deliberately, or just passing by? Did he come on a boat? Hmmm… No, he sounded Bristol-born. Local. Maybe I passed him regularly in the strete without noticing.
“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine…”
Emma finally looked up. Father Jerome was putting away his rosary. She blessed herself and let out a sigh of relief – perhaps a little too loudly. The priest looked sternly at her, but then his face transformed with understanding.
“It has been some years since I last gave the holy oils in this house,” he murmured. “Your mother bore her long suffering with grace, Emma. God grant her peace.”
Emma lowered her eyes, surprised that he remembered, the memory sharp and unwelcome. Those last months had been cruel – her mother wasting day by day, until the house itself seemed steeped in sickness. She had been little more than a girl, yet already keeping her Father’s accounts, soothing the household, standing in her mother’s place. She swallowed hard. “Amen, Father,” was all she said, was all she could say. Nothing more was needed.
Emma heard the faint lonely tolling of the Franciscan Compline bell and reflected, you mark not only the end of a day but the end of a life too.
Into this quiet moment of reflection came her father, his strong, commanding voice so unlike her mother’s gentleness.
“Father Jerome, I am glad you arrived in time. Were you… was his soul…?”
“Yes, Master Fenwick.” Her father had returned, slightly out of breath. “I was in time. His soul is in God’s hands now. Unfortunately, too late to hear his confession – he must plead for himself at heaven’s gates. We have done all we can for him in this mortal life.”
Emma studied the stranger’s face in the candlelight. Whatever confession he might have made, whatever sins he carried, one thing was certain – he had died asking for Catherine’s forgiveness. That must now be my quest, she decided.
“God be with you tonight, Father,” Richard said as he ushered Father Jerome towards the door. The Franciscan Compline could barely be heard through the darkness, tolling from within Greyfriars.
What a night! Emma thought. Maybe we can rest a while now, and consider the poor man in peace. Father Jerome’s last rites brought back painful memories of her own John – and now equal misery would be brought to bear on another’s door. The weight of it all bore down heavily on her.
“Emma?”
“Yes, Father. Sorry, I was just thinking how life changes on the toss of a farthing.”
Richard nodded, rubbing his face with both hands. He looked older somehow, the lines deeper around his eyes.
“The inquest will be at first light. Coroner Bale wastes no time.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I will speak for the household. As head of the family, it falls to me.”
“Of course, Father.”
“There is one matter.” He glanced towards the corpse, then away. “When the coroner asks what happened, I think it best if… if Ned and I were the ones who received him at the door.”
Emma frowned. “But I was here. I held him as he…”
“I know, daughter. But think on it. A young widow, kneeling in blood, a dying stranger in her arms – the gossips will have a feast. They will talk of nothing else for months.” He softened his voice. “I would spare you that.”
She considered. It was not unreasonable. The neighbours already whispered about her – the widow who kept accounts like a man, who walked the streets with Margery when she should be at her prayers.
Emma hesitated. It felt strange, this rearranging of events. But what did it matter, truly? The man was dead. Her presence or absence changed nothing.
“Very well, Father. If you think it best.”
Richard let out a breath. “Good. That is settled then.” He moved towards the stairs, then paused. “You should rest. I will take the first watch.”
“No, let me. I… I made him a promise as he died. A woman called Catherine. He wanted her to know…”
“Know what?”
“That he loved her. That he did something for her.” Emma looked at the still form on the floor. “I don’t even know what that means. But I must find her and deliver his message. It is my Christian duty.”
Richard was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, neutral.
“The inquest will tell us who he was. Wait until then.”
“As you say, Father. When my John died, many questions were never answered. I fear the same may happen again.”
“There was a different coroner then. The new one, Bale, I am told he is accurate with questions and demands answers. Have faith in him. Let your John rest.” There was no reproach in it, only tiredness.
Emma looked tired, she looked down at the stranger, dead, blood already turning a dark brown. “This reminds me of my John, stabbed but none can say where, none cared…” She wanted to say more, but feared that it would be for nought. It always was when she tried to speak to her father of John’s inquest. Unanswered questions.
“Yes, Father. You are right. We see what Coroner Bale determines.” she said, more brightly than she felt.
As her father climbed the stairs slowly, his footsteps heavy on the worn oak, a deep worry still etched on his face as he looked back on his daughter. Emma knelt beside the stranger, talking quietly to herself. “Is there a loved one waiting patiently for you to come home? Is that your
Ciaran Leamy - Author 