They found her in the churchyard after mass. The chandler’s wife. The carpenter’s wife. Two others Emma barely recognised. They moved as one, hemming her against the lychgate.
“Mistress Fenwick.” The chandler’s wife did not smile. “A word.”
Emma looked past them, searching for her father. He stood with the guild merchants across the yard, too distant to be of aid. Margery stood across the churchyard, in earnest conversation with other women.
“Have you received a summons?”
Emma hesitated, then nodded. “Yesterday. The beadle came.”
Something shifted in the women’s faces – not relief exactly, but grim satisfaction.
“Good. Proper order.” The carpenter’s wife folded her arms. “You set this trouble brewing. You should taste its contents – only fair.”
“My husband sat on that jury.” The chandler’s wife stepped closer. “Twelve years a churchwarden, never a mark against his name. Now he must answer to Bale – because… because you couldn’t let a stranger lie quiet.”
“The man deserved his name. His soul – “
“His soul is God’s concern. Our husbands are ours.” The woman’s voice was hard as hearthstone. “You meddled where you had no cause, Mistress.”
Emma said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“The Fenwicks will not be forgiven for this. Not by this ward. You remember that.”
Another voice, colder still: “If any return tomorrow with fines to pay, we will call to your father for coin – you tell him that.”
The women parted. Emma walked through them, her hands trembling at her sides.
Tomorrow, the castle.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 