“You’re in fine spirits this morning, Mistress.” Ned paused in his work, a hogshead balanced on his shoulder.
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”
But she had noticed. She had noticed the lightness in her step since dawn, the way her quill seemed to glide across the ledger, the warmth that spread through her chest each time her fingers brushed against the token in her purse. The Guild-Master’s favour. His mark of recognition. Doors that had been shut to her – to any woman – might now open at her touch.
She had not yet told anyone. Not her father, not Ned, not even Susan. The words sat ready on her tongue a dozen times that morning, but each time she swallowed them back. How would her father take it – his daughter elevated above him in the guild’s esteem? Would he be proud? Or would something darker cross his face?
Best to find the right moment. Best to choose her words with care.
The shop door opened. Emma did not look up – Ned would see to whoever it was.
“Guild-Master! What an honour, please…”
Her Father’s voice, eager and deferential. Emma’s quill hesitated over the column of figures. A slight trembling of her hand.
Footsteps. Not towards her father. Toward her.
She kept her head down, expecting Ned with some query about the afternoon’s deliveries. The shadow fell across her ledger and she looked up.
The Guild-Master stood over her, close enough that she could smell the scented oil in his hair. His eyes were fixed on her face, and there was a smile on his lips – thin, practised, entirely without warmth. He said nothing. Simply stood there, watching her.
The silence stretched a moment too long. Then another.
Behind him, her father hovered, confusion plain on his face. Ned had found sudden urgent business among the casks at the far end of the shop, examining them with fierce concentration.
“Guild-Master.” Emma set down her quill. “How may I serve you? Do you require some product for your cellar?”
“We must talk.”
“Of course, Master. What would you like to discuss?”
He leaned closer. “Not here.”
Emma did not move. The memory of yesterday rose unbidden – his hand on her arm, steering her through the guildhall door before she could protest. She had allowed it then. She would not allow it again.
“If you wish to speak privately, we may use the hall upstairs.” She kept her voice steady. “But you must wait here while I make arrangements.”
His eyes narrowed. “Arrangements?”
“My cook will attend us. For propriety.”
A flush crept up his neck. “That is hardly necessary.”
“It is necessary to me.”
For a moment she thought he would argue. Instead he gave a curt nod, his jaw tight.
Emma rose and climbed the stairs, her heart hammering despite her calm face. In the kitchen doorway, off the hall, she found Susan elbow-deep in flour.
“Susan, I need you here at the doorway, to observe. The Guild-Master wishes to speak with me. You needn’t do anything just… just be present.”
Susan’s eyebrows rose, but she asked no questions. She wiped her hands on her apron and stood in the doorway, arms folded. Out of hearing but ever present.
Emma returned to the top of the stairs. “You may come up now, Guild-Master.”
He climbed slowly, each step heavy with displeasure. As he reached the hall, Emma glanced past him to the shop below.
Her father stood frozen, his face a mask of confusion and wounded pride. Beside him, Ned had stopped all pretence of work, his expression unreadable. She had asserted herself with the Guild-Master, yes – but at what cost? Her father had been ignored in his own shop, and now his daughter was receiving private audiences as if she were mistress of the house.
She entered the hall, and indicated separate chairs close to the warm brazier.
“Can I offer you any sustenance?”
However, he seemed not to be in any mood for pleasantries. Casting a glance at Susan, to ensure she was out of hearing… he leaned in close to Emma, but was brought up short by a sharp cough from the doorway.
Emma acknowledged the interruption with a brief nod to Susan who, chin up, seemed to swell with pride. Whatever feeling of control Emma felt was very soon broken as the Guild-Master, face flushed with pent-up annoyance, hissed –
“Your friend Mistress Chester is causing trouble, with that wretched wife of Thomas, she must be stopped.”
“I… I don’t follow.”
“It is time, mistress Emma, to earn that token. There is a price to pay, loyalty to the guild.”
“Yes, but what has …”
“Thomas is the murderer, that is agreed. He must die!”
“What!”
“Are you deaf? Thomas is the… “
“I know what you said, Master, but… ” Emma felt herself cast adrift, being left to float in a sea of insecurity. She glanced at Susan, wondering if she understood the enormity of what was being said, but her smiling acknowledgement showed she had heard nothing.
“Now listen. Thomas is the murderer. He won’t be missed.”
“His wife does not agree, Mistress Margery was… “
“Listen to me. Mistress Margery is interfering. Thomas’ wife will be glad when this is all over and her husband is gone to the next life where he belongs. You must go to her.”
He paused a moment, glancing again at Susan with irritation.
“I will arrange suitable employment for her, tell her that. She need have no worry on that account. Her brutish husband will be gone, she can begin anew. It is simple.”
“I spoke with Mistress Chester, only yesterday, she will…”
“And I heard less than one hour past that she is meddling.”
“I didn’t realise… but surely she will tire. She is flighty, like a sparrow. Quick to act and quick to forget. In a day or two…”
“In a day or two?” He drew his fingers through his thinning hair, breathing deeply. “Do you not know the assizes are due to sit in five nights… five. She will destroy me… I mean us… Let that be an end to it.”
Emma looked over at Susan, hoping for some assistance, but she stood proudly, arms crossed, clearly satisfied that she was doing her duty protecting Emma.
“Are you listening to me?” he barked, louder than he had intended.
“Mistress Emma, are you safe?”
No, I am not! Emma thought to herself. I need your help. “Yes, Susan, all is well.” Then eyeing the Guild-Master, “is that not right, Master?”
There was no answer, he simply rearranged himself, smoothed the front of his cotehardie – neat and deliberate.
“Need I remind you, mistress, that the Fenwicks are beholden to the guild. Without membership – what then? Destitution. Not only for your father, but you, as a widow? Where will that leave you? Think on that.”
I will not bend to this… bully.
“I understand master. I will most certainly convey your message to Mistress Chester.”
“No!” he thundered.
Susan moved from the doorway, advancing to give aid. He waved her back with an arrogant wave of the hand.
“This is not a request, this is an order.”
“You are not my master…”
“You have my token, accepted freely. Yes, Mistress Fenwick, I am your master.” He looked her straight in the eye, unflinching, daring her to contradict.
The silence seemed everlasting. Even the brazier seemed to have been silenced. Emma finally broke eye contact, feeling defeated.
“Do you understand your… duty?” he pressed for an answer.
Dumbly, she nodded, thinking Nought is given without payment.
“Good, woman. Now I must give my apologies to your father for my abrupt entrance – he will understand.”
She was dismissed, in her own house.
The house was still. Down in the shop she could hear Ned locking the shutters, the dull clank of the bar falling into place. She ought to be below helping, but tonight other matters pressed more urgently. On the table before her lay two sheets of parchment and her late husband’s signet ring.
Two messages – brief, formal, carefully phrased, words she had spent many hours considering, rejecting, honing. Now she felt confident enough to commit to parchment. She dipped the quill, hesitated only a heartbeat, then began to write. When she had finished, she sighed, relieved that a decision had been made.
She reached for the small brass spoon and scooped a sliver of red wax from the block – deep crimson, flecked with soot – and held it over the candle flame.
The wax softened quickly, curling into liquid with a faint scent of resin and beeswax. She tilted the spoon, letting the molten drop fall onto the parchment’s flap with a quiet hiss. Before it cooled, she took her late husband’s signet ring – heavy, gold, the signet worn smooth at the edges but still bearing his mark.
Her hand hovered for a breath. Then she pressed the ring into the wax, firm and deliberate, imprinting the seal. When she lifted it, the mark remained, clear, final. Surely a sign that John approved her actions.
“A matter of conscience,” she murmured, half to herself.
Outside, she called softly for one of the porters still lingering in the yard. “This for Mistress Margery,” she said, handing him the first. “And this… this is for Friar Jacob at Greyfriars. See them delivered before Vespers. If the night watch stop you, show them this,” she said, giving him the Guild-Master’s token. “It is valuable, guard it closely and return it to me directly.”
The man ducked his head and was gone into the gathering dusk.
Tomorrow was the Sabbath. A day for prayer, for stillness, for waiting. But come Monday…
Ciaran Leamy - Author 