After the briefest of embraces, she was rushing off up the strete. Ahead, she led the way through Howdene Lane behind some dyers’ yards, a bright shawl wrapped close against the chill. “We are a bit late for a sit down chat,” she murmured, “but we can plant the seed and let it take hold.”
Emma hurried alongside, basket in hand, breath clouding in the cold. “If anyone’s heard of a fight near the quay, it will be here. A man cut about the eye – someone must have seen him.”
The smell reached them before the yard did – piss and woad and something sharper beneath.
“A fine scent we have followed,” Margery joked as she drew to a halt, just outside the yard. She led Emma aside to plan how to approach for information.
“We are arriving late, it would be best early before they get into proper work, now, they will not have time for us. Leave the talking to me.”
“Yes, of course… what…?”
“I will plant the seed and let it grow in their minds. They will not answer a direct question, especially during work. Middle of day is not far off, they usually sit and break bread then. That is when they will chat, dig up memories. For now, we just ask and not press.”
Emma was thoughtful and nodded to show consent. Without waiting for her, Margery breezed into one of the yards like a long-lost waif.
The women looked up as they entered. Despite being out in the open, the heat hit them first, then the smell – sharp and earthy, wool and urine and something bitter beneath. One, her hands already blue-stained from the dye vat, called out, “Margery! How are the little ones?”
“In the hands of my sister now, God bless her patience,” Margery said with a tired smile. “Right storms they are at two and three – they’ve worn me thin already.”
Laughter rippled among the women. “You’ll not get peace till they’re grown,” one said, dunking a skein into the vat.
Margery took advantage of their good humour. “I’m looking for a bit of news. A brawl near the quay – maybe a week past or the week before. A clerk was cut over his right eye. Any of your menfolk mention such a thing?”
The women exchanged looks, shrugging. “Men fight every night once the ale’s gone sour,” said one. “Could be anyone.” Another added, “There’s always shouting after the curfew bell. We stop listening.”
Emma watched quietly as the talk drifted towards drunken husbands and cost of candles this winter. The air thickened with steam and gossip, but none of it useful. She sensed the morning slipping away.
At last she stepped forward. “A farthing,” she said evenly, “for a name. A proper one. If he drew a knife.”
Margery stepped back, sensing that Emma had overstepped the line.
That silenced them. One spat into the vat; another looked away. The youngest of them bit her lip, eyes darting towards the others. “Ask again after the nones bell, mistress,” she murmured, shoulders hunched. “Someone will remember by then.”
Emma placed the coin on the edge of a vat, where it gleamed against the dark water. “We’ll see if truth is worth the farthing – talk amongst yourselves,” she said quietly.
Margery slipped her arm through Emma’s. “Come, leave them be.” And mouthed sorry to the nearest woman.
They walked out of the yard and on down the strete till they were out of sight of the dyers.
“Emma, what did I say? Let me talk and you listen.”
“You were getting nowhere and the sun is near its height. We were wasting time.”
“I will not argue, there are times you should trust me. You have placed a farthing, I guarantee a name will be given, it will cost more than a farthing and it might not be a true name.” She shook her head sadly.
Emma was not for conceding “The farthing is well spent, if we get a name.”
“We want the correct name, not a name. Can we, at least agree on that?”
Realising her error now, she had the grace to admit it. “When will we return? When they eat at noon?”
“No, Emma, respect what they said. We wait till nones bell. They will respect us if we respect them. I know the women.”
Emma bit her lip, thinking. “We… I don’t know… the thought of waiting till then doing… what? Doing nothing?”
“It is the only link we have, we should … yes, we should ‘just wait’.”
“Sorry, Margery, I can’t just wait,” and turned back towards the yard. Margery was quicker and blocked her path.
“Behave. You are still distraught. Do it my way. Your Father’s warehouse is close, we can go there, I am sure Susan will have sent food aplenty. Let us sit, feed and recall everything from the inquest. There may be more trails to follow.”
They found Ned stacking barrels near the rear of the warehouse, his sleeves rolled high despite the cold, face glistening with effort. The great doors stood open to the strete, letting in a bitter wind that cut through the space. No brazier had been lit. When he saw them, his expression brightened as he paused his chores.
“Mistress Emma,” he said, “Mistress Margery.”
Margery looked around, rubbing her arms. “Is there no fire? I had hoped Susan might have brought food.”
“She has not come yet, Mistress. We are busy with the loading deliveries before word spreads.” Ned gestured to the open doors where two workers were rolling barrels onto a cart.
Margery pulled her cloak tighter, her breath misting. “Then we shall not linger long.”
“How is father faring, do you have news?” Emma asked.
“It is wrong. He should not be confined… like a…”
“I know, Ned, how is he?” she persisted.
“He is… Content. Yes… content. Not happy, just… content.”
“That makes no sense, what do you mean?”
“I know it makes no sense, mistress, but that is how I found him. He trusts the ward, the… guild. Yes, he trusts the guild to save him.”
Margery’s eyes narrowed. “He trusts the guild? Is that what you say? Why the guild?”
For a moment Ned was confused, as if he had completely forgotten that Margery was there.
“I mean, he trusts merchants to have him released. Not just the guild, all merchants.”
“Ned, I understand. It is hard for you to see father as he is. I will visit him later, before… “
“No, mistress, there is no need, I… I mean I can visit later, he is expecting me.”
Sensing something amiss, she prodded. “Did he have any message for me?” The wretched look on his face betrayed him.
“Tell me.”
“The master wants no meddling,” Ned muttered. “Not proper for women. He said that there is talk enough already.”
This was not the response that Emma expected, and she suspected that Ned did not have confidence in his reply. She looked closely at him. Unlike when she tried reading Walter’s face and failed, this was different. The way Ned couldn’t look at her directly, the nervousness, licking his lips.
“Ned, listen to me. We are trying to help, no one else is. Father’s faith in the ward and the guild is… ” There it is again, that unbidden unease in the eye, or am I imagining it?
“Ned, I cannot force you to be honest, but I know you are not telling me the full truth.” She thought to herself. Yes, I think I am on the right path… Possibly he is not in agreement with father?
She sat on a barrel and tapped the one beside her. “Ned, come sit.” Margery quietly stepped back towards the shadows.
“No, mistress, I can stand, it is not…”
“Ned, this is a command, now sit… … please.”
She turned to face him, sensing that he was totally ill at ease.
“I never asked what you think. Do you think the ward will support father?”
Head low, he simply shook it from side to side.
“Neither do I, we are in agreement on that. Now, do you think Margery and I might find the truth?”
This time there was no shake of the head. Does he actually believe we could succeed? Ned, why don’t you just speak? She screamed in her mind. Unless…
“Ned… Ned… look at me… yes, look at me. Are you afraid what we will find?”
Although he never answered, his expression was answer enough.
“Is father also afraid?”
The expression never changed. What do they have to fear? She looked across at Margery, puzzled.
For a second time Ned was caught totally unawares as Margery made her presence felt. “Enough of this game of feint and chase, Ned. There is more, I can smell it.”
By this time, Ned looked most uncomfortable, glancing from one to the other.
“Yourself and Master Richard fear we will find the truth… … No! You fear we will find A TRUTH. Yes! That is it. A TRUTH.”
By this time, Margery was almost dancing with glee and triumph, but she had no idea what the triumph was, just that something important had happened. Her elation ended quickly as that truth dawned on her. She stopped, looking at Ned as a bird eyeing a tasty worm.
“What were you doing, Ned? What were yourself and Master Richard doing? What are you ashamed of?”
Emma saw the reaction immediately. He worries about his activities, or possibly Father’s.
“Ned, wait, calm your breath… it matters not what activity, I suspect there were many people abroad, outside our door… ” she waited for a response.
There was none coming, save a reluctant shake of the shoulders which was enough to give Emma hope.
“Speak, Ned. Give me a morsel to taste. Something with a semblance of truth. We have pieced much together already… “
“I think it was a woman, that’s all. She was gone in a breath.”
“What? There was a woman! What are you saying?” she almost roared, before Emma gripped her arm to remind her to be calm.
“You are saying there was a woman, is that right?” The cast of Ned’s face said it all. Horror.
“Ned, too late now to retract. There was a woman outside. Was it Catherine?”
He shifted his weight, eyes on the floor. “No, I mean I don’t know.”
But Emma sensed that here was a path that needed following.
He swallowed, colour rising to his cheeks. “Please, mistress… “
“You know her,” Emma whispered. “Who is she?”
Ned rubbed his neck, “Mistress Emma, as God is my witness, let Him strike me down, I don’t know who she is. All I know is her cloak has a tear on the left side, exposing her face.”
Ned sat there, embarrassed, but recovering quickly.
Emma sensed that they had lost the advantage. They had missed a turn of route. She decided to try and tease more from him.
“Ned, don’t you understand, with this information, we might be able to find the woman. She can prove the attack happened outside our shop not inside. That will clear the Master. Why, why did you not tell us earlier? What do you fear?”
Despite two pairs of eyes boring into him, Ned seemed… safe. Disaster averted? Is that what he is thinking?
Emma stood and when Ned attempted to rise, she placed a hand on his shoulder, “Not yet Ned, we are not finished.”
She walked some distance, out of earshot and Margery joined her.
“He is lying,” Emma said with conviction.
“You think? He is lying about a woman outside. I think not.”
“No, I mean… Yes, I believe it when he says there was a woman outside. But he lies. I sense it. There is more.”
“I could scream,” Margery hissed. “What is wrong with the man? He knew all along that there was a woman outside and stayed silent… And worse, I think we have seen that selfsame woman ourselves, and recently.”
“We have? I don’t think so.”
“Maybe… but it is there like a ghost in my mind. Torn hood or torn cloak. Something torn. Of that I am certain.”
They stood looking at Ned who had returned to his chores and was now making himself busy with wine samplers. Is he humming a tune! Emma thought, incensed.
“He is no longer afraid. He has told us about seeing a woman… he seems almost… happy. What has changed, what did we miss?” Emma was whispering, as if to herself.
“You said earlier, we missed the turn. Did he cast us a baited crumb to send us the wrong way?”
“Ned? No, I don’t think he has the wiles for it.”
Emma eyed Ned more closely. He does seem almost happy. The nervousness and fear is gone. Like he has been successful. Why?
“Margery? Any thoughts?”
“Hmm… If Ned does not have the wiles. What about his Master. Is he following a plan set out by Richard, to keep us away from something important?”
“I don’t see how,” she whispered back. By now, Ned was ignoring them completely. “He told us there was a woman. Torn hood – must be of low rank. Yes?”
“Yes, low rank. So why not identify her and have her testify. If she were of high rank…”
“Wait, I have a thought. Let us suppose the woman is not the issue. Was she with someone else?”
“Doing something naughty?”
“No, Margery, that is not what I mean!”
“Yes, something naughty. A man! A high rank man, with a low rank woman!”
“Stop it. You are twisting everything. I meant tha…”
“Ned.”
He stopped mid-stream moving a cask. “Yes, Mistress Margery?”
“Don’t,” Emma whispered urgently, but was ignored.
“Forget the woman, Ned. But the man…”
The effect was immediate. He almost dropped the cask, a wide-eyed look of the hunted being cornered.
“An important man,” she continued. “Not only your better, but also your Master’s better. That is what causes the fear.”
Margery had reached the end of her chain of thought. Emma realised now that Margery had been right all along.
Emma resumed her position on her barrel.
“Ned, I know, I really do. Forget about the woman. Who else was there? I will find out, better I find out from our home than drag up memories from neighbours. Yes?”
“It was just a glimpse… it was dark… I couldn’t properly see.”
“But it wasn’t, Ned. It was not dark. Why lie?”
Ned was shocked that Mistress Emma could call him a liar.
“You hurt me, Mistress, I am not…”
“Be quiet, Ned. You hurt me with your lies. I know both you and father lie. It was not dark when Edmund fell into our shop. It was shortly after Benedictine Compline and before curfew. There was someone else. A man… A man of importance, of high standing.”
Ned looked stupefied, colour draining from his face. Looking around as if the Master could appear and save him.
“Ned.” Margery got his attention, rapping sharply on a barrel. “I can see through you. You blanched when Emma mentioned a man of importance. We will find the man. If you care for your mistress, you will not continue obstructing her on her quest. Emma, show him your authority.”
Emma searched in her pouch and produced the Franciscan Token.
Margery took it from her, and held it up to Ned. “See. The Franciscan token, the personal token of Friar Jacob of Greyfriars. He has asked your Mistress to carry out this sacred quest on his behalf. Must we return and tell him that Ned of Fenwicks has obstructed his authority? Well?”
Emma and Margery studied Ned like a piece of fish about to be filleted. Very uncomfortable. But not bowed. He stayed silent. The power of the Church hadn’t swayed him.
“Ned, I ask you again. Who?”
“Mistress, I cannot… The master forbade me.”
“He did not forbid you from telling about the woman.”
A quick shake of the head.
“But he forbade you from identifying the man,” she said with a long disappointed sigh.
He made to rise again.
“No, Ned. Sit.” She looked at him straight, but he kept his eyes averted. “Ned, your Master is in the castle, he is not here. In his absence, I am both Mistress and Master. I command you as Master to tell me straight. Who was the man?”
“I must tell the master that you commanded me.”
“Yes, Ned. You may tell him. Now, tell me.”
“The Guild-Master. It was the Guild-Master. Our Guild-Master.” Ned admitted, almost expecting the earth beneath his feet to open and consign him to hell.
Emma felt that Ned had suffered more than enough.
“Have no fear, Ned.”
Margery was about to burst with excitement.
“Yes, yes… the Guild-Master out with a woman – and not his wife, unless she’s taken to wearing torn cloaks.” Margery smiled. “Sweet as honey.”
“Now wait, I said no such thing – don’t go troubling the Guild-Master, he is no murderer. Master swore me to protect the Guild-Master at all cost. Please, Mistress Emma. I trust you.”
“Ned, your trust will not be misplaced. We will not approach him, he is safe.”
“Safe? Are you…”
“Yes, Margery. Safe. Thank you, Ned, you may return to your duties.”
Emma didn’t share the elation that Margery seemed to be feeling, and she knew not why. Here was a scent to follow, and another to ignore. Difficult.
Margery was stamping her feet against the cold. “Enough. We are frozen through and there is nothing more to be had here. Come, Emma, let us find warmth and food at the Hall. Susan should have noon-meat prepared. We can think better with full bellies.”
They left Ned standing among his barrels, the wind still cutting through the open doors.
They came in through the upper back door, shoulders stiff with cold and damp. Shoes squelched faintly against the worn boards of the pantry. The air was thick with the scent of broth and baking bread, and Susan looked up from her work with a wide grin.
“By the saints, Mistresses! You’re a sight. Get yourselves into the hall before you freeze solid, I have a good fire lit in the hearth. With Master ‘away’, I thought the fire… you know.”
“Yes, Susan, very thoughtful. We will keep that fire bright till he returns.”
“Go on now. Warm your toes. I’ll bring you platters and bowls shortly. I thought not to set table… Do you approve, Mistress?” Emma touched Susan on the arm and smiled.
The fire in the hall was burning high, throwing golden light across the rush-strewn floor. She slipped off her sodden shoes and held her feet towards the flames, sighing as feeling began to creep back into her toes. Steam rose from the hem of her gown where it had soaked through.
Margery stood in front of the fire, so close that Emma feared the cloth would singe.
“You’ll set yourself alight.”
“Then I’ll die warm. Better than that warehouse.” She didn’t move.
From the kitchen came the cheerful clatter of pottery and Susan’s humming. A few moments later the older woman appeared, carrying a wooden tray with bowls of barley-and-leek soup, wedges of cheese, and coarse brown rye bread and a platter of yesterday’s cooked pheasant.
“Eat,” Susan said firmly, setting it beside them. “And you, Mistress Chester. Sit before you burn the hall down. You will destroy those fine clothes.”
Margery finally retreated from the fire and settled on the bench, stretching her feet out. Emma cupped her bowl, letting the warmth soak into her hands before taking a sip.
Emma ate slowly, mechanically. The soup was good but she barely tasted it. Her mind kept circling back – the hostile faces at the gate, Ned’s reluctant confession, her Father’s trust in a ward that had already abandoned him.
“There is something we don’t understand,” she said slowly. “Father knows the Guild-Master can clear his name. Why does he remain silent? Why did he swear Ned to secrecy?”
“Fear. He is dependent on the guild. It would be dangerous to cross them.”
“Yes, you are probably right. They are too powerful. In this instance, we must be guided by father and not rush about knocking over barrels in our haste.”
“You mean, for now, we depend on the dyers… If they fail us, then what? The Guild-Master?”
Emma shuddered as though a freezing wind had enveloped her. “I do not relish that idea, not one bit.”
“Nor I. But we could approach his… mistress. That would be easier. Lower order, we could bend her to come to the coroner.”
“Hmmm. It is a path… But remember what I promised Ned this morning? Any name we find, we give to father first. Let him decide whether to go to the coroner.”
There was no decision, just better paths than they had this very morning – easier to follow. There was no more to say as they chewed on their meal.
Emma was first to finish, cleaning her bowl with the last of her bread. She licked her fingers. “We wait. The dyers may yet give us a name – a real one. We pursue that path first. If it leads nowhere…” She took a breath. “Then we consider the other path – his mistress – the lady in the cloak.”
“And if the dyers’ name is false? If they simply offer up some poor wretch to claim the coin?”
“Then we must be clever enough to know the difference.”
Margery didn’t look convinced. But didn’t argue further. She stood, brushing crumbs from her kirtle. “Come. It is near nones bell. Let us see what a farthing has bought us. Was it money well spent?”
The nones bell had barely stopped tolling when they reached the dyers’ yard. Emma had expected to find the women busy, perhaps a few willing to talk. What she found was chaos.
The yard swarmed with bodies – not just the dyers, but neighbours, sisters, a toothless grandmother who had no business being there. They spotted Emma and Margery at the gate and surged forward, voices rising.
“I know who done him!”
“My husband saw the whole thing!”
“A farthing, you said – I’ve got a name for you!”
Emma stepped back, overwhelmed. The noise battered at her, names and claims tumbling over each other until they became meaningless sound.
Margery planted herself between Emma and the unruly, clamouring throng.
“Enough!” Her voice cut through like a blade. “One at a time or none at all!”
The clamour subsided, though bodies still pressed close. A dozen faces stared at them, hungry for coin.
“Push back. You will all be heard. In order. Now, back!”
Margery raised her arms as if herding cattle, but to no avail. No sooner was there organisation at one side but people came at her from the other. One of the women from earlier came over and positioned them between two simmering vats, giving them a modicum of protection.
“Right then. I’ll hear each of you. But mark this – I know lies when I smell them, and I smell plenty already. If you waste my time with nonsense, you’ll get nothing but the back of my hand.”
She pointed to a thin woman near the front. “You. Speak.”
“It was Jack the carter, mistress. Everyone knows he’s a bad one. Fights every…”
“Where was this fight?”
“Well… I don’t rightly know, but…”
“Away with you. Next.” Margery cut her off without ceremony. The woman scowled but retreated.
A younger one pushed forward. “Tom Baker’s boy. He’s always causing trouble down by…”
“Did you see him fight with a knife?”
“No, but my cousin said…”
“Then your cousin can come tell me herself. Next.”
And so it went. Margery worked through them with brutal speed – dismissing the vague, the hopeful, the obviously false. Emma watched, marvelling at her friend’s patience and ruthlessness in equal measure.
Most claims crumbled under the simplest questions. Where was the fight? What did the men look like? Who drew first blood? The answers were mumbles, guesses, invented details that contradicted each other.
Then a heavyset woman with blue-stained forearms stepped forward. Emma recognised her from that morning.
“I’ll not waste your time, Mistress Chester. You know me and my man. He drinks at the Boar’s Head just inside St. Nicholas’ Gate. A week past, maybe two, he saw a fight. A big brute of a tanner against a smaller fellow – quick, he was. Dark hair. Soft hands, my man said. The small one was winning till the big one pulled a knife and slashed him across the face.”
Emma’s breath caught. Soft hands – could be a clerk. Definitely not a labourer or seaman. Cut across the face.
“The tanner’s name?” Margery asked.
“Thomas. Thomas the tanner, from out by Saint Leonard. They call him Thom the Claw on account of his fighting cock.”
Margery held up a hand, silencing the murmurs. She turned to another woman – older, grey-haired, arms crossed.
“You had something to say earlier. Before the crowd drowned you out.”
The older woman nodded slowly. “Same story, near enough. My nephew works the quay head. He saw the fight – said the big man was mad as a baited bear. The small one had been talking to his woman on and off many times. Nothing improper, just talk. But Thom the Claw, that’s what they call him, he don’t like other men near his wife. Beat her often enough for less.”
Emma looked at Margery. Margery looked back.
Two witnesses. Same story. Same man. Same threat.
“Thomas the tanner,” Emma said slowly. “Thom the Claw.”
“One and the same,” the grey-haired woman confirmed.
Emma reached into her purse and drew out two farthings. She pressed one into the blue-armed woman’s palm, one into the elder’s.
“You’ve earned these. If you’ve lied to me, I’ll know soon enough – and I’ll be back.”
“No lies, Mistress. God’s truth.”
The other women began to mutter, realising there would be no more coin. Some cursed under their breath; others simply drifted away. Within moments the yard had emptied, leaving only the two witnesses and the lingering smell of dye.
Margery turned to Emma, a grim smile on her face. “Well. It seems your farthing bought more than a convenient man to blame after all.”
“Thom the Claw.” Emma tested the name. “A man with a temper and a knife.”
“And a man we can find. Near Saint Nicholas, she said.”
They thanked the women and made their way out of the yard, arms linked. Emma’s mind was racing – a name, a real name, someone to pursue – but before she could speak, the first drops fell.
She looked up. The sky had darkened without her noticing, clouds piling thick and grey above the rooftops.
“Margery…”
The heavens opened.
Cold rain hammered down, turning the lane to mud in seconds. The gutters overflowed, water streaming past their ankles. Emma gasped at the shock of it – soaked through before she could even raise her hood.
“Run!” Margery grabbed her arm.
They fled up Redcliff Strete, skirts hitched, shoes squelching, half-laughing and half-cursing as the rain drove into their faces. By the time they reached Corne Strete they were drenched to the bone, gasping for breath, and grinning like young fools.
“Thom the Claw,” Margery panted, leaning against a wall. “We have a name.”
Emma nodded, water streaming down her face.
“Stop the talk, inside before we die from cold.”
They burst into the shop, wet to the skin. Ned greeted them with a wary glance. “Tell me you didn’t approach…”
“Relax, Ned, no, we didn’t. And we won’t, not before we talk again.”
Ned just nodded. It was as if the short conversation hardly happened.
Inside the shop, they moved swiftly to the upper hall, the smell of food and warmth drawing them like moths to a flame. The hearth was glowing low. Susan, clearing the remnants of supper, looked up with a knowing smile. “Oh heavens, and what strays have wandered in now? Get over to the fire, both of you, and out of those wet clothes.”
Shivering by the fire, they disrobed hurriedly as Susan fetched linen to dry themselves and some heavy wraps.
“Susan,” Emma called out. “Margery’s staying the night.”
“And rightly so, no night to be out.”
While they were warming in front of the hearth, Margery asked “What will we do with this name? Do we have sufficient to go to Master Richard?”
“I was thinking the selfsame thing myself… and I am not sure…. Not yet. Do you have the names of the men who actually saw the fight. We need to talk to them.”
Margery tapped her head – “All stored, have no concern on that.”
Emma couldn’t sit still. Having the name, she wanted more action. Prove it true and have Father released.
“Margery, we should tell Ned. He may know something of this Thom the Claw.”
They found him in the back store. He came into the shop wiping his hands.
“Do you have any news?”
“We have a name,” Emma said. “A tanner called Thom the Claw. He fought Edmund outside the Boar’s Head, two weeks past. A knife fight – that is how Edmund got the cut over his eye.”
Ned’s face changed. He went very still.
“You say. Two weeks past. That… If it is the same fight. That was a nasty one and I was there.”
Emma and Margery exchanged glances. “You saw the fight?”
“Yes, I am certain now. Thom the Claw and some small… of course! The small man was a clerk, someone said from Greyfriars.”
“I couldn’t see much of the men fighting – there was such a press of people around. But it was vicious, all right. It took many strong arms to pull them apart. The small man was besting Thom, and that enraged him even more. Mad as a baited bear, he was.”
“Go on.”
“I remember when the small man was being led away – more like shoved – and told to head home before more blood was spilled. All the time, Thom was still roaring.” Ned’s voice dropped. “Next time there won’t be anyone to interfere – ‘I will slice you like a slaughtered pig. Mark my words! I will see you in your grave!’” He looked at them both. “I swear to the almighty, those were his words. I heard him bellow them with my own ears. I never knew it was Edmund till now, but I swear it.”
It took some moments for the enormity of what Ned had said to sink in.
Margery eyed Emma. “We have our man.”
“That we do, and no mistake.”
Before Ned could react, Margery had seized him in one of her fierce embraces. He stood rigid as a poker, arms pinned to his sides, face scarlet.
“Mistress Chester… please… it is not…”
“Oh, hush.” She released him and he stepped back quickly, tugging his tunic straight and avoiding Emma’s eye.
“Ned,” Emma said, sparing him further torment, “we attend the master early tomorrow and give him the name. He will be home this time tomorrow – God-willing.”
Ciaran Leamy - Author 