People were already about: apprentices dragging shutters open, a tanner’s boy hurrying past with a stack of hides, two old women gossiping as they picked their way over the icy stones. As Emma passed, heads turned. Emma continued, head lowered, wishing to avoid any further insults. Close to High Cross, it was difficult to ignore the salutations.
“Good day to you, Mistress Fenwick!” A cooper’s wife bobbed a curtsy. “And God bless you… truly. The stretes feel safe again now Thom is taken.”
Did I hear right – was that a compliment?
She raised her head a fraction, not looking anyone in the face, yet not averting her gaze either. Testing. As she continued along High Strete, the sun felt bright and warming, like the compliments.
Another came across and gripped her hand, pulling her close. Emma’s initial reaction was flight, but the smile stayed her impulse. “We are saved. There will be no levy now, thank you a hundred times.” Pressing some dried sprigs of St. John’s Wort into her hand as protection.
“If ever you find yourself in need… you have only to knock. We will not forget you.”
Emma murmured thanks and walked on, warmth rising in her chest. It was odd – people had always known her as Richard Fenwick’s daughter, dutiful, quiet, useful. But today they looked at her as though she were something more.
Nearer the gate, a merchant leaned out from his shop-front, lowering his voice as she neared. “We owe you, mistress. The ward is spared a fine. In winter, not all could pay. Your questions – well… they turned the tide.”
She nodded, almost shyly. “I am glad it brought ease to the ward.”
She didn’t want to puncture anyone’s relief. And besides… wasn’t it deserved? She had uncovered the truth. And surely it was no sin to feel proud.
Today, at least, she could feel the sun.
Her good mood lasted until Margery came marching towards her along the strete – bright mantle, bright kirtle… her face a study of pain.
“Emma,” without preamble. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Margery! What ails you? You look as though the abbess herself scolded you.”
Margery ignored the attempt at levity. “Have you thought any more on… what we discussed… yesterday?”
Emma exhaled slowly. “Yes. And I feel it is time to step back. Truly, our work is done.”
Margery’s brows shot up. “Done? How is it done? Thom sits in the castle cells…”
“And if he is innocent,” Emma cut in gently, “then the King’s justice will see it. We must have faith in the law.”
Margery stared at her, as if she had spoken madness. “King’s justice? Emma Fenwick, since when do you place your faith in that?”
“Since yesterday,” Emma said with a faint, tired smile. “Do you not see? The ward is at peace again. People sleep easier. If we press further, we stir trouble that need not be stirred.”
Margery was unable to contain herself, unable to believe what she had just heard. “Do you hear yourself? God’s mercy, Emma. Listening to a poor dyer-woman cannot topple justice. What harm is there in hearing her? You yourself said her words troubled you. Did Master Fenwick sway you?”
“No, I mean yes. Her words did and still do trouble me,” Emma admitted. “But that does not make her right. And I am not the coroner. I am not even… ” she faltered, choosing her words carefully, “… a person whose place it is to meddle further.”
“Then I shall go in your place,” Margery snapped. “If you are too… lofty now for such work, I will listen to her myself.”
The words hit harder than Margery intended – but she did not withdraw them.
Emma’s face cooled. “Lofty? Is that what you think of me?”
“I think,” Margery said, voice quivering with the anger she barely contained, “that you have let this attention turn your head. All these good mornings, all these thanks. Suddenly you shine brighter than Saint Werburgh’s altar.”
Emma’s temper flared. “So you resent that the ward is grateful? Resent that I tried to help?”
“I resent,” Margery said through gritted teeth, “that you will not believe me when I say something is wrong. You will not believe yourself, when you sense there is something wrong.”
“You’re chasing shadows,” Emma said. “And you’d drag me chasing with you.”
Margery stiffened as though struck. “Is that what you think? Did I not assist you? Or is that long forgotten, now I ask for assistance?”
This is going where I do not wish it to go, Emma thought, troubled.
“That I drag you?” Margery’s voice wavered. “Very well. Go your way, Emma Fenwick. I will trouble you no longer.”
“Margery… don’t be foolish.” She bit her lip, knowing she had said wrong.
“Foolish? No.” Margery lifted her chin. “I should have known better than to ask help of someone who thinks so little of my judgement.”
Neither spoke. The very air seemed raw and brittle. Neither dared move.
Finally… Margery spoke. “Enjoy your adulation. I will not abandon Thom or his family. I at least will listen and not turn my back.”
They held each other’s gaze a moment – hurt, pride, anger all tangled – then Margery turned back towards Saint Nicholas Gate.
Emma stood rooted, watching her friend’s bright mantle weave through the crowd – past a carter, around a knot of gossiping wives, between two apprentices jostling each other. The throng swallowed her, piece by piece, until only a flash of madder red remained. Then nothing.
Around her, Bristol carried on. Laughter. Chatter. The ordinary noise of ordinary lives. Emma heard none of it. She turned towards the High Cross, the morning sun cold on her face, I do not need you, Margery Chester.
She had not gone ten paces when a voice stopped her. “Mistress Fenwick, stay, if you please.”
Emma turned. The voice was smooth, practised, and carried easily above the clatter of carts on the strete. The wine Guild-Master was making his way towards her, his fur-lined gown swinging heavily about his knees. The habitual sternness of his face broke into what might have been a smile, though it never reached his eyes.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” he said. “There is a matter on which I would beg a moment of your attention. May I?”
Curiosity held her long enough for him to come close. His hand – plump, damp, authoritative – closed round her upper arm. The pressure startled her; before she could step back he was already steering her along past the cross.
“Mistress Emma – may I call you Emma?” he murmured. His gaze lingered too long. “What I wish to discuss is of a delicate nature. We shall be more at ease in private.”
Without awaiting consent, he guided her through the arched doorway of the guildhall. Emma’s stomach tightened. Alone with a man, unchaperoned! How did I let this happen? She looked behind, but the door was already closed. Too late, she feared.
Inside, the noise of the strete died away. The vast room smelt of oak-smoke and beeswax. A brazier glowed in the centre; above it dark rafters crossed like the ribs of a ship. A heavy chair on the dais bore the guild’s emblem – a ship upon three waves.
“You have never graced this hall before?” he asked, releasing her arm at last. “No, I thought not. Few women do. This is where the life of our city is decided – alliances made, merchants advanced, fortunes weighed.” He gestured to a settle near the fire. “Pray, sit.”
Emma obeyed, still half uncertain why she had been brought here. The heat from the brazier pricked her cheeks; the Guild-Master’s eyes studied her with a strange satisfaction.
“The hall serves many purposes,” he continued. “It is a place to impress noble patrons, a place where men of substance may speak freely. And, at times, a place for reward.”
He paused to let that word rest between them. She inclined her head, polite, expectant.
“We have had, in our long history, only one female member – not a full brother, of course, but a name entered with honour in our rolls. Such a favour is a gift granted solely by the Guild-Master to those who have proved… invaluable. Persons who can be relied upon to do what is right for the guild.”
Emma frowned slightly, uncertain where this was leading.
His smile hardened. “Someone like you.”
She stared, uncomprehending for a moment. “Me, master?”
“Yes, you,” he said softly. “You have spared this guild a scandal that might have ruined half its trade. By your diligence and discretion the matter of that unfortunate clerk is ended. You have done Bristol… and this guild, a service.”
From his purse he drew a small round token of bright metal, engraved with the guild’s seal – a ship upon three waves. The firelight caught it, and she thought suddenly of Edmund’s poor, dull lead token, broken in half.
He took her hand and pressed the new token into her palm, folding her fingers about it. “Keep this. It will open doors for you – doors others would find firmly shut. Accept it as a mark of our gratitude, and of our confidence that you will continue your good work… in our favour.”
“What would you have me do in return?”
His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. The warmth of the brazier seemed to vanish; she heard only the faint hiss of the fire.
“Nothing you would not do already.”
At last he smiled again, the mask returning. He moved towards the door, beckoning Emma. The meeting was obviously at an end. “We shall see you at the next feast, Mistress Emma. Until then – prosper.”
Outside, the chill air struck her face. The guildhall door closed behind her with a heavy thud. She looked down at her hand; the token gleamed against her glove, bright as promise, heavy as guilt.
For a heartbeat she thought of running to Margery, of sharing the strange good fortune, but the thought died as quickly as it came. Their friendship had torn itself apart. No – she was better where she was, within the walls of honour and respect, the world smiling upon her.
She slipped the token into her purse and walked on, telling herself that this was the proudest day of her life, and that she deserved every ounce of its warmth.
Yet somewhere beneath that warmth a cold, small doubt began to stir.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 