“Ned, fetch some bread and salt for palate cleansing.”
Satisfied now, she re-checked. Four barrels lay ready to be opened fresh – a promising white from a new vineyard near Bordeaux, the reserve – a deep red that Father had been saving for just such an occasion and a recent red which Emma herself had sampled – a light red, sharp on the tongue with a fruity flavour – ideal to serve with pheasant after a shoot. I think this will sell well.
“The Thornbury steward,” Ned said, almost to himself. “That’s a household of forty souls, maybe more. If he favours the Red Gascony…”
“He will.” Emma adjusted the cloth’s edge. “And Father’s reserve, that will tempt him also.”
It felt good to be here, doing this. The familiar rhythm of commerce. No corpses. No coroners. No grieving widows… who weren’t grieving. The world back in its place.
“Is the light sufficient?” She tilted the candle.
“Perfect, Mistress. You have a talent for this.” He placed the bread and salt on the laid table.
She allowed herself a small smile. Perfect. All is in order… again
Ned glanced towards the window. “He should be here by now.”
“Give him time. The roads from Thornbury are not kind in winter.”
“Yes, as you said – the roads are difficult this time of year.”
Emma took her place by the tasting table and waited.
The candle had burned low, its flame guttering in the stillness. Emma moistened her fingertips and pinched the wick, a thin trail of smoke rising between them.
“I hope nothing serious has befallen the steward,” she said quietly. “The roads can be treacherous.”
“Treacherous, yes Mistress… You are probably right.”
“Come now, let us have better spirits. Someone will come with news and another dealing for us from the steward.”
Ned said nothing, but his frown spoke plainly enough. A household of forty souls. An order that would have filled the cellar with coin. Gone.
A rap at the door. Emma looked at Ned mouthing “Make ready.” She smoothed her kirtle and moved to greet their guest… but, yet again it was not the steward. A young man in Thornbury livery stood at the threshold, mud-spattered from hard riding.
“Mistress Fenwick?”
“I am she. How may I assist?”
He held out a small package – parchment, folded and sealed with wax. “For Master Richard Fenwick. From the steward of Thornbury Manor.”
Emma took it. “Will you wait for a reply?”
“No, Mistress. I am bid only to deliver.”
“Do let me give you sustenance for your ride and return.” She opened the door wide to invite him enter.
He nodded respectfully. “No mistress, my orders are to return immediately,” and was gone as suddenly as he had arrived.
She turned the letter in her hands. Official.
“What does it say?” Ned asked.
“It is addressed to Father. I cannot open it.”
She set it on the counting table, propped against the inkwell where Richard would see it when he returned.
“Perhaps the steward is merely delayed,” Ned offered. “Sends word he will come tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.”
Neither believed it.
Try as they might to settle into a rhythm of work, the white cloth, quenched candle, mazers and… the official sealed message stood accusingly all the time, never out of view.
“Hello the shop.” rang out from upstairs.
“Oh Susan, my deepest apologies. We neglected the time. We will be up shortly.”
“Ned, do you wish to have some sustenance first, I will stay here if customers happen by.”
Before he could answer, the chandler appeared at the door. Emma recognised his heavy frame, his careful eyes that missed nothing. At the inquest he had been the one to approach her, to press for her silence. She had not spoken to him since.
“Mistress Fenwick.” He removed his cap. “Might I trouble you for a moment?”
His tone was pleasant. Neighbourly. That made it worse somehow.
“Of course, Master Chandler. Come in.”
He stepped inside, glancing about the shop as though appraising it. His eyes fell briefly on Ned, and some small signal passed between them – a nod, nothing more.
Ned cleared his throat. “I should take my food now. If you’ll excuse me, Mistress.”
Emma was annoyed at being set aside by men. “No Ned, I need you to stay here. Master Chandler can accompany me to the hall where Susan can observe.”
“Of course, as you wish Mistress.”
Emma motioned to the chandler to precede her up the stairs to Fenwick Hall. Once inside, she motioned him to sit by the large table while she went to explain the situation to Susan.
Returning to the table, the chandler still stood. Emma sat at the head and motioned him to a place on the empty bench – wishing to show her mastery of the household, and him a visitor. She glanced across and Susan had taken up her customary position in the doorway to the kitchen.
“May I offer you some sustenance? Barley broth is on the boil.”
“No, no… thank you. I have already eaten.”
Emma was pleased to notice that the, normally confident man, seemed unsure of himself. She looked at him enquiringly, waiting for him to start.
“You have been busy these past days, Mistress. Naming the dead man. Arranging his burial.” He paused. “Finding his woman.”
The second person to come with this information. Tales travel fast, she thought. “It was my Christian duty. Nothing more”
“Yes, indeed.” He smiled – not unkindly, but without warmth. “Many people talk of your… work. Have you considered what comes next?”
“The matter is concluded. Edmund is buried. His soul is at rest. My work is done. As you can see, I am wholly busy here with my father. What were you thinking?”
“Yes, his soul is at rest, perhaps. But the rest of us?” He shook his head slowly.
“You must speak more plainly sir, I do not grasp the importance of what you say.”
“Word is spreading… If I may ask. Will Father Jerome report the burial to the castle?”
“The church has no obligation, I see no reason whatever for him to go especially. Why would he?”
“Perhaps you are right.” He examined the scratches on the table with extreme interest and Emma was happy to leave him with his thoughts, to wait. Finally, having sorted his words, he looked at Emma.
“Private burial… Father Jerome conducted the service. I am told that Walter of Greyfriars attended. Catherine of the washroom. How many others? Five? Ten?” He spread his hands. “The tale will travel from mouth to ear to mouth across the town Mistress.”
“And tales become confused with each retelling. There is no need to think that the Coroner Bale will hear the story as first told.”
“True enough. And when Coroner Bale hears – and he will hear – what then? Will he be curious, or will he ignore?”
He wanted to say more, but was hesitant. Eventually he squared his shoulders, mind made up.
“The coroner does not take kindly to being made a fool. A man he declared a foreign sailor turns out to be a clerk from Greyfriars. A man with a name, a woman, friends who can speak for him.”
Emma felt a coldness spreading through her chest. “You mean a man you declared a foreign sail… “
“Yes, yes… I know. “At the inquest, I did what was needed to protect this ward. The carpenter. The porter. Men who would have been ruined by a levy.” His eyes held hers. “I lied for them, Mistress. And they lied with me. If the inquest is reopened, it is not only my neck in the noose. It is all of ours.”
“I did not ask you to lie.”
“No. You asked us to stay silent while you did your Christian duty.” A flash of something – anger? fear? – crossed his face before he mastered it. “And now we must all live with the consequences.”
Emma watched him, realising that she now felt a pang of regret at the anger she had in her heart earlier for this man. She wanted to reach out and reassure him, but… what could she offer. He could be right.
“Oh what matter why or anything. All I say is… You have opened the barrel, and like the wine barrel, once opened it is impossible to close it as it was. I am afeared that Bale will find out and…” He spread his arms, no further words needed.
He stood, waited in silence for a moment. “I… I simply wanted to call… Say, Mistress, I wanted to say that there may be anger in the ward if… you know.”
Abruptly, and with a sign of sorrow he took his leave, nodding to Susan as he opened the door to the stairs, not waiting to be escorted out.
The hall was set for supper. Bread, cheese, cold mutton from yesterday’s roast, a dish of winter roots in butter. Susan had laid everything with care. Emma sat at her place, hands folded, watching the candle flames dance. Ned perched on the bench opposite, unusually quiet. The unopened message sitting beside fathers trencher.
They heard Richard before they saw him – his boots on the kitchen flags, his voice carrying through.
“Good evening, Susan. Something smells promising.”
“Mutton, Master. And roots in butter, the way you like them.”
He appeared in the doorway, rubbing his hands against the cold. His cheeks were ruddy from the walk, his spirits evidently high. He crossed to his chair at the head of the table taking off his cloak and draping it on the chair before sitting.
“Well now, daughter,” in obvious good humour, “the Thornbury steward – how did we fare? Did the new red win him, or the reserve? It was the reserve, am I right?”
Emma opened her mouth to answer, but Richard had already seen it. The letter with the red wax seal, official. He frowned, picked it up.
“What is this? Thornbury’s seal…”
He broke the wax and unfolded the parchment. Emma watched his eyes move across the words. Once. Twice. His face changed – not all at once, but by degrees. The colour draining. The lines around his mouth deepening.
He said nothing. Simply held the letter out to her.
Emma took it. The parchment was good quality, the hand neat and practised.
To Master Richard Fenwick, Wine Merchant of Corne Strete, Bristol
I write with regret that I am unable to attend upon your establishment as previously arranged. Circumstances have come to my attention which regretfully oblige me to seek supply for this household elsewhere.
Your wines have served this household with distinction these many years. The quality of your Gascony Reds and the fairness of your dealings have earned the trust of my Lord and all who sit at his table. It grieves me that such a bond must now be set aside.
I wish you God’s blessing in your future endeavours.
Written at Thornbury this twentieth day of January
Thomas Holt, Steward
Emma read it twice, as her father had. The words were courteous, even warm. And utterly final.
Circumstances. What circumstances?
She looked up at her father. His brow was furrowed, confusion plain to see on his face.
“I do not understand,” he said slowly. “Fifteen years. His lord has drunk our claret at every feast, every holy day. What circumstances?”
“The death? The man who died at our door?”
“A stranger collapsed on our threshold. That is misfortune, not scandal. Why should Thornbury care?”
Emma shook her head. “Perhaps he heard rumours. Tales grow wilder with each telling. Who knows what the final tale said.”
“What tales? The inquest found a foreign sailor killed by a fellow mariner. Tragic, but nothing to taint our house.” He took the letter back, read it again as though different words might appear. “The quality of your claret… the fairness of your dealings… It grieves me. He praises us in one breath and casts us aside in the next.”
Ned and Susan sat frozen, food untouched. Susan caught Emma’s eye and rose quietly, touching Ned’s shoulder. They withdrew to the kitchen without a word.
Richard set the letter down carefully, as though it might shatter.
“Something is amiss. Something we do not see.”
“Could someone have spoken against us? A rival merchant?”
“Who? And what could they say that would undo fifteen years of honest trade?” He rubbed his face with both hands. “It makes no sense, Emma. None of it. I treasured their friendship more than their trade. Gone.”
The mutton cooled on its dish. The candles burned lower.
“Is it possible… ” Emma started, trying to arrange her words. “Is it possible, that he knows something, that is unknown to us?”
“Anything is possible. But that moves us not an inch along.”
“Perhaps he will reconsider,” Emma offered. “When whatever rumour reached him proves false.”
“Perhaps.” But his voice held no conviction.
Richard picked up his knife, cut a piece of cheese, then set it down again untouched.
“I have no appetite tonight. Forgive me.”
He rose and walked to the window, staring out at the darkening strete. Emma watched him – not angry, not accusing, just… diminished somehow. A man who had lost something and could not name what.
Emma was still deep in thought, analysing. “Father?”
“Yes daughter.”
“Could it be something that is yet to happen. Thornbury has the ear of the castle. Is something afoot?”
Richard turned around to look at his daughter, his face showing that there might be some possibility here. “I… We must be careful, listen and take note of rumours. I will tell Ned… no not Ned. It is not the common folk that we need worry of. Emma, be sure and let me know of any conversations of a… suspicious or unusual nature. Not normal.”
“Yes, Father… father?”
Yes?”
Today there were two visits that, well they were not ordinary. One was from Master Weaver and the other from the chandler down the strete.”
“No, Emma. They would be the wrong people. I meant from our rank, merchants and above. That is where we will hear of anything untoward. Who else is due for tasting in the next days?”
“There are no tastings, but I think there are many hogsheads to be delivered around town to the taverns and friary. We will be busy enough.”
“Yes, yes. It is probably a simple mistake. We should let Thornbury lie for a day or so… I will to my chamber.” He took a large chunk of cheese and munched it on his way up the stairs, leaving Emma to her thoughts.
I fear you are mistaken father. We need to listen to the lower classes, they know much, and Ned is the person to hear.
“Ned. Are you near?”
The afternoon had turned grey, the earlier brightness gone. Emma stood at the counting table, checking tallies from the morning’s deliveries – three hogsheads to the White Swan, two to the Franciscans. Small orders, but honest work. Life continuing.
True, the steward from Thornbury had not come. Yet the shop remained open, the work went on. Thornbury was an exception, an oddity. Of no consequence… surely?
“Ned.”
He looked up from the barrel he was marking.
“What are they saying? In the taverns.”
He set down his chalk and considered. “Some grumbling, Mistress. Some sympathy too. Old Thomas at the Swan said you did right by the dead man. His wife disagreed.” He shrugged. “Talk, mostly. It will pass.”
“So, nothing untoward, all is… normal?”
“Nothing, Mistress.”
Emma allowed herself a small breath of relief.
The shop door swung open and Margery swept in, bringing cold air and bright spirits with her.
“There you are, hiding among your barrels as usual. I have news.”
“News?” Emma felt her chest tighten.
“Master Weaver has a new loom. It can create the finest cloths, the lightest weave. The apprentices are learning today, you must come and see it.”
Emma stared at her. “Summer cloth. In January. Have you lost your senses, woman?”
“One must plan ahead. The year turns faster than you think.” Margery cast a critical eye over Emma’s grey kirtle. “Besides, you need colour.”
“I am in mourning.”
“For two more months. And when the year is done, will you emerge in something beautiful, or will you still be wrapped in cobwebs?” She tugged at Emma’s sleeve. “Come. Just to look. Show an interest! The weaver is expecting us.”
“Is he now?” Emma raised an eyebrow. “And when did you arrange this?”
“This morning. I happened to pass his shop and happened to glance in and happened to mention your name.”
“Happened.”
“By mere chance.” Margery’s smile was unconvincing. “He seemed pleased at the prospect of your custom. He says you purchase nought from him.”
“And he should be reminded that he purchases nought from this shop also.”
“Well then, this is your chance to tell him. Admire the new loom, let him.. Oh, it matters not what he says… just come… please.”
Ned coughed, poorly concealing a grin. “Mistress Margery, are you playing marriage broker again?”
“I am doing nothing of the sort. I am merely helping a friend find suitable cloth. If the weaver happens to be unmarried, and happens to have kind eyes, and happens to have spoken well of Mistress Emma at … “
“Margery!” Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I am not looking for… “
“None said you were. But summer will come, and you will need a new kirtle, and Master Weaver will have the finest in Bristol. That is truth, all else is conjecture.”
Emma shook her head, caught between vexation and affection. This was Margery – tireless, ridiculous, and impossible to stay angry with.
“Very well. Perhaps tomorrow I will, Ned can you ensu… “
She stopped. A figure had appeared in the doorway, blocking the light.
The beadle.
He stepped inside without greeting, his face set in official blankness. Behind him, the strete noise seemed to fade.
“I seek Master Richard Fenwick.”
Ned straightened. “I will fetch him.” He disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps quick on the worn oak.
The beadle waited. He did not look at Emma. He did not look at Margery. He stood like a man with unpleasant duties and no interest in conversation. Above, footsteps could be heard, heavy and slow.
Margery moved closer to Emma, her hand finding her friend’s arm.
Footsteps on the stairs. Richard descended, Ned behind. He stopped at the foot of the stair, looking directly at the beadle.
“I am Richard Fenwick. What business brings you? Can I assist?”
The beadle reached into his satchel and withdrew three folded documents, each sealed with red wax.
Emma’s heart stilled for a moment, her mouth suddenly dry, unable to lick her lips, thankful for Margery’s gentle squeeze.
“By order of Coroner Bale, you are summoned to attend upon him at the castle, there to answer questions pertaining to the death of one Edmund, clerk of Greyfriars, lately found slain within this ward, specifically in the shop of Master Richard Fenwick.”
He held out the first. Richard took it as though it might burn him.
“Mistress Emma Fenwick.”
Emma stepped forward, found her legs could scarcely move. She leaned forward and received the parchment – it felt cold in her hand.
“Edward, known as Ned, manservant of this house.”
Ned received his, not saying a word.
The beadle returned the satchel to his shoulder, summons delivered, duty done and turned to the door.
“Wait.” Margery’s voice rang out, too bright, too loud. “Is there nothing for me? Am I not good enough for his lordship’s attention?” She spread her hands. “Because my father was a carpenter?”
The beadle stopped. He turned slowly and looked at her – a long look, not angry, not amused. Pitying perhaps. Or merely tired.
He said nothing.
He walked out into the strete and was gone.
Margery’s jest hung in the air, unanswered, fallen flat. No one moved. The sealed summonses sat in their hands like stones.
Emma looked at her father. His face had gone grey, the parchment trembling slightly in his grip. Fifteen years of reputation. Thornbury. The guild. Everything he had built.
“Father.”
He looked up. Drained.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 