“My toes are lumps of ice,” Margery muttered, stamping her feet. “If Susan were here, she’d have hot stones ready from the hearth.”
Emma stood beside her, still as a statue, her nose redder than Margery’s madder cloak. “We said we’d start early. He’ll open soon enough.”
“Soon enough for him, perhaps,” Margery grumbled, blowing on her fingers. “He’s likely still abed.”
The strete was quiet except for a porter dragging a cart of hides towards the bridge. A few neighbours nodded as they passed, calling, “Good morrow, Mistress Fenwick,” and glancing curiously at her companion.
From behind the shutter came the faint scrape of a stool, then the creak of boards overhead.
“There, you hear?” Margery whispered. “He’s only now breaking his fast! What kind of tradesman rises with the sun still climbing?” Before Emma could answer, she rapped smartly on the door.
“Margery… “
“If we freeze solid, he’ll have two fine statues for his window,” she said, and knocked again, harder.
Inside came the shuffle of feet and the sound of bolts drawn. The door opened the width of a hand, revealing a small man with a round face, wisps of beard like frost on his chin, and a woollen cap pulled low. He blinked at them through the crack.
“Good morning to you, sir,” Margery said brightly. “Would you keep two honest women turning to ice in your strete, for all the town to see your lack of manners?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Seynts preserve us – in, in, quickly!”
He swung the door open just enough to admit them. The shop was narrow and warm, the air thick with the smell of heated metal and last night’s broth drifting down from the room above. A brazier glowed near the wall; beside it, scales, tiny chisels, and strips of hammered gold gleamed on the bench.
The goldsmith rubbed his hands, unsure whether to bow or to fetch his ledger. “How may I serve you, mistresses? You’ve the look of business about you.”
“We come on a matter of some urgency,” Emma said, drawing a folded parchment from her cloak and laying it on the counter. “Does this mark mean anything to you?”
The goldsmith bent to look. For a moment his face was all good humour; then the change came – eyes narrowing, the colour draining from his cheeks.
“You know it,” Emma said quietly.
“I know nothing of this,” he replied, pushing the parchment back towards her. “And I cannot discuss other men’s work.”
“Please – what is the mark for? It’s a lead token, cut in half. I was told it might be yours. Is it?”
Emma saw the damp sheen on his forehead, the way his fingers curled tight on the smooth wooden counter.
What is this? Fear. Yes, fear. But of what – the token? Us? We should back away, let him settle.
Emma met Margery’s eye, pressed her lips together, and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head – motioning towards the door. A warning.
“Look at you, Master. You’re shaking worse than a man on the gallows. We know the token came from your bench. What’s the name of the man who bore it?”
Margery, what are you doing?
Trying to get Margery’s attention, Emma stepped forward slightly and raised a finger, but instead of attracting Margery’s attention, she frightened the goldsmith even more.
His breathing quickened, visible as the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the thick apron. “Out,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “You’ve no business here.”
Margery leaned closer across the bench. “Tell us the truth, or we will bring the Coroner upon you for obstructing the investigation into Edmund’s death!”
The mention of Edmund was the final blow. The goldsmith’s eyes flew wide, scanning the narrow room as if searching for an escape that wasn’t there. He let out a thin, terrified sound – a small, choking whimper of sheer panic.
He scrabbled backward, his heel catching the stool. Instead of falling, he lunged for the bench, sweeping aside the scales. Hammered gold strips and filings scattered to the four corners. Emma thought he grasped for another tool until the light caught the edge of a knife. He held it low, point glinting.
“OUT!”
“Come!” Margery seized Emma’s cloak, pulling her towards the door. They burst into the strete, stumbling and pulling each other forward.
Behind them the door slammed shut, bolts shot home.
They stood in the frost, clinging to each other, breath ragged, the shock of what had nearly happened settling over them.
“Emma… Wait… Emma!”
Emma did not wait. She tore up Brode Strete like a hunted thing, skirts gathered in one fist, breath burning her throat. She dodged a cart, shouldered past a pair of apprentices, collided with a woman carrying a basket – sending eels slithering over the cobbles. She barely heard the curses behind her.
Only when she reached the Whyte Harte did she stop – not from exhaustion, but because her frustration had finally caught up with her fear.
She braced a hand against the tavern wall, forcing her breath to steady. Her heart hammered, but her mind was sharpening, not breaking.
Behind her came the slap of hurried footsteps.
Margery stumbled into view, bent double, hands on her knees. “Mother of God… Emma… you run like a hare with fire at its tail…”
Emma waited. Let her breathe. Let her have a moment.
“Well,” Margery wheezed, her voice still unsteady. “He knows… something.”
Emma nodded. “And now he knows that we know.”
Puzzled, Margery eyed her. “He does? Pray tell me – what precisely do we know?”
“I was trying to tell you to leave,” Emma said, the words tight.
“I thought you meant – “
“I meant flee, Margery. Did you not see his eyes?”
Margery leaned back against the cold stone. “I saw fear. I thought if I pushed…”
“A cornered rat bites.” Emma’s voice was bitter.
Then Margery, quieter: “What is he so afraid of? What have we touched?”
“Does it matter? We could have died.”
“True… but we touched something. He is afraid of something and we are still blind.”
A beat passed. The street noise swelled around them – hawkers, carts, the distant clang of a smith’s hammer – but between the two women, a stillness held.
Emma broke that silence after some deep thought.
“The goldsmith is terrified. Terrified men do not threaten women in broad daylight unless they fear something greater behind them.”
“But let us search elsewhere first. Emma darling, I have no wish to see that man again without the castle serjeant by my side for protection!”
“I agree… That was too much excitement. I have no wish for grey hairs.”
Margery grinned, despite herself. “But it was exciting! Admit it.”
“Oh, stop it, Margery… Alice next, then?”
“Cyder House it is, with luck they will have hot food in the kitchen.”
Margery set a brisk pace to the Cyder House. Margery clutched Emma’s arm and led her around to the rear entrance. The kitchen was already open to allow some of the cooking heat to escape. The heat and the aroma had Margery salivating and the ever-proper Emma was succumbing to it also. Margery barged straight in and struck up a conversation with the cook, warming herself all the while at a brazier, while Emma stood tentatively on the threshold trying not to shiver.
“Cook, my companion and I are dying from the cold, can we sit on the bench there to get heat back into our feet and… ” eyeing the meat pies cooling on the table, “two of those pies to heat our insides?”
“Go on with you, is that Mistress Fenwick hiding outside?”
“It is, she can be somewhat shy.”
“Mistress Fenwick, come, inside out of the cold and heat yourself. Cook Susan would have me flogged if I left you outside. Come on in.”
It was a blessed relief to be in the hot kitchen and get their feet up from the frozen ground outside. Two bowls of stew were quickly enveloped in two shivering pairs of hands as they luxuriated in the heat.
“Would you eat that up while it is still hot,” the cook scolded. “Go on now.”
Emma let her back lean against the daub-covered wall, the empty wooden bowl on her lap.
“Cook… don’t dare repeat this, but this is the best I have eaten in… I don’t know when.”
“Are you sure I can’t tell Susan how much mine is better than hers?” she laughed
“How much do we owe?”
“Let us fix on a farthing – is that agreeable?”
As Emma was extracting the coins. Margery asked “Is Alice here?”
“Yes, she is inside in the tavern serving, she never comes to the kitchen.”
“We would like a quick word, but… ” there was no need to finish the sentence because women of their rank do not enter taverns, especially unaccompanied.
Taking pity on them, the cook roared “‘Alice visitors here for you.’
A strongly built woman of a slightly older age than themselves came out. She was not subservient in any way, the opposite. Confident in herself and her surroundings.
She looked at the cook who nodded to Emma and Margery.
“Alice, might we have a word please?”
Wiping her hands on a dirty cloth tied around her waist she nodded.
“Perhaps outside,” Margery suggested.
“What do ye want? I’m busy and ’tis freezing out here.”
Emma continued.
“Do you remember the time when Edmund, the Greyfriars clerk, was murdered on Corne Strete?”
“I thought he was murdered in Fenwick Hall.”
“No, it was in Corne Strete.”
“You see it then, him being killed on Corne Strete, Mistress?”
“No, I erred… He was stabbed in Corne Strete and died in Fenwick Hall.”
“If you say, then it must be true.”
“Did you see him stabbed that night?”
She eyed Emma cautiously calculating.
“‘Did you see him stabbed, Mistress?’ That is what you ask. Who says he was stabbed on Corne Strete?”
“I am told that you were on Corne Strete when he was stabbed. I, I mean we, hope that you mi…”
“Anyone say I saw Edmund stabbed that night is a liar, and don’t you spread such words. You hear?” as she advanced threateningly.
Margery positioned herself between the two women.
“I think my companion mistook the information. Did you see Edmund that night, before he entered Fenwick Hall?”
“You’re not the coroner, why do I answer to you? I think not.” As she turned, entering the kitchen.
“Prefer to answer to the coroner then?” Margery shouted after her.
Alice stopped. The squaring of her shoulders was enough to show her feelings. Turning, she strode purposefully to Margery.
“You think I am afraid of the coroner Mistress?” Then pointing to Emma. “Her, she should be afraid that I do go to the Coroner. I will tell what I saw. As I passed Fenwick Lane, who did I see?”
No one spoke, confusion on Emma’s face.
“Let me tell you who.” She came really close to Emma, face almost touching. Emma tried to lean back away from her.
“Master Fenwick speaking with someone. Very suspicious-like. Then a short while later, I was over by The Nails talking with… with a neighbour and what do I see? I will tell you what I saw. Poor Edmund, bleeding, clutching his stomach was banging your door. Did Master Fenwick murder Edmund? That… is what I will ask!”
She turned on her heel, Emma turned pale as alabaster – pale as Edmund had been in death. Before entering the kitchen, she turned one last time, her voice sharp.
“Look to your own house, Mistress Fenwick, and leave hard-working souls their peace. I hear your Ned received his Coroner summons this very morning. Maybe it was him did the deed! Yes, maybe it was!”
The two women were lost for words, walking without purpose outside Haddens, like a ship adrift.
Margery finally broke the silence with a tentative “Well, didn’t expect that! I suppose Alice is no longer on our list?” But there was no answer. Emma deep in thought, walking.
“Emma, stop. Do you want to go home, back to Fenwick Hall?”
“No, not now. Not till I know more. I know father is not a murderer but… well, he has much to answer for, and no mistake. If it was anyone else I would go to the coroner and accuse him…”
Margery quickly changed the topic. “Did you hear what she said of Ned?”
Emma looked confused. “Ned? What…”
“Ned received his summons today from Coroner Bale. He must attend court.”
“Ned? I wasn’t expecting that. What does Bale want with him? Margery, we must be more careful, we must be certain before we accuse – even between ourselves. We must…”
“Hush now, I’m with you.” Margery gathered herself and took charge. Opening her list, she considered the names.
“Goldsmith?” looking to Emma.
Emma shuddered, “As you said earlier – not without the sergeant-at-arms and his men!”
“Agreed… well… let me see… what about Walter?”
“Walter? He has someone to speak for him. His landlord, surely?”
“Yes… or does he? He says that he has, but we need to test it. It cuts both ways, we must be careful what we say and also what other people tell us. If his story falters, we may have our first solid scent.”
Emma nodded brightening considerably, “You’re right, Walter it is… do you know his lodgings?”
“Not a blessed notion, I thought Catherine told you?”
“No, but Walter did – don’t you remember? He was so pleased with himself he practically dared us to check. Seynt Jony’s Lane.”
They walked up Toures Strete towards the Blind Gate. They asked a number of people if they knew Walter, the clerk from Greyfriars, but none could recall.
“Do we knock on each door, the full length of Seynt Jony’s Lane?” The thought was overwhelming to Emma.
Glancing north, through the gate, Margery spied a number of women chatting.
“No, Margery, we can’t.”
But her words landed on deaf ears. Without hesitation Margery marched towards the women. Emma followed reluctantly up Grope Strete, a deep red blush rising from her neck.
What is wrong with that woman? This is not where Walter lives… in the women’s quarter! Emma thought, scandalised.
She scarce was able to look any of the women in the face. She hung back, behind Margery.
Margery was not so reticent. “Mistress, may we have a word?”
Surprise was the first expression, which shifted without pause to defence.
“What do you want of me?”
“Do you know of a clerk from Greyfriars called Walter?”
Realising the possibility of coin, she held out her hand without speaking. Margery caught Emma’s eye, nodding towards the outstretched palm.
“Oh… OH!” She delved into her cloak, embarrassed.
“How much is… I mean…” She looked helplessly at Margery, now totally out of her depth.
Margery moved herself between Emma and the lady so that the coins were hidden. Took some low-value ones, then turned back.
“We are looking for Walter’s lodgings, and can offer one halfpenny for that information. Not a coin further.”
“I don’t stir for less than a half-groat, no one does.”
“I am not asking you to go to bed or get out of it – that is your concern. Mine is information.”
They stood mute, each weighing up the other.
“Thank you for your time,” Margery turned. “Come,” she grabbed Emma’s cloak hem, and dragged her away.
“Wait, mistress. Hold a spell. Can you not laugh at a joke? Yes, I can tell you where your man lodges. One penny and no less. That is my final word.”
They stopped and turned, but Margery held Emma back, forcing the other to come to them. “One penny for the exact location.”
Turning to a house off the strete, she screeched, “Marge, hi Marge… come here a bit.” She drew near “Marge, these ladies seek a clerk from Greyfriars called Walter. They seek his lodgings.”
“How much do they offer?”
“One penny, I asked more but they refused.”
“One penny is fair… each.” The two women stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed tightening their shawls around them.
“How do I know tha…?”
“That I know him? I know him like his mother knew him as a newborn, we certainly do!” They laughed out loud.
But Margery had regained her stride. “It is not when he was born that interests me – it is how he is now as a man.”
“Oh, he is a man and no mistake.” They exchanged knowing glances.
“If you want your coin, give me a recent description of the man we seek.”
“About your own age, Mistresses…”
“Nay, Marge, I think younger.”
“He struts about like a peacock, nose in the air like our smell offends.”
“Aye, she’s right there, but the smell don’t offend when he needs company!”
“A strange thing about our Walter – never short of coin.”
“And him but a scratching clerk at Friary. Oft wondered where that coin come from.”
Both turned towards Margery, hands outstretched – “That’s end of free taster.”
“Where are his lodgings?” Margery insisted.
“Where you won’t find without crossing palms with coin.”
Emma and Margery conferred. Emma wanted to give the coin and be done with it, but Margery was enjoying the game.
“One coin now and the other after you give his place.” She showed a single penny coin.
One of the ladies almost tore her arm off before it could be withdrawn.” Tell her.”
“Other side of wall, within the town. Along Seynt Jony’s Lane. Beside the graveyard. You can’t miss it – it is the only one with straight shutters and clean whitened daub. She advanced menacingly with hand extended.
Margery handed over the remaining coin which disappeared faster than a bailiff’s oath.
Emma exhaled, feeling as if she had been holding her breath throughout the conversation.
“I think that was money well spent, what do you say, Emma?”
“Absolutely, well done, you did well there. I would not have the nerve.”
Buoyed by their success, they retraced their steps through the Blind Gate, turning right along the lane.
The dwellings on the Lane were definitely of the poorer layers of the town, a lane not often frequented. Built abutting the cold granite walls Emma noted that they must surely weep cold, damp and rivulets of water throughout the winter. Something she had never contemplated before in her cosy merchant’s house. But there was one that stood out from all the rest, one that had the look of pride in its standing – well-kept.
Before Emma could restrain Margery she had already strode forward and rapped loudly on the stout well-crafted door. With her usual impatience, she rapped again harder and louder hardly allowing the echoes from the previous to fade.
“Hold. Out there!” came an angry male voice. “I am not deaf!”
Followed by silence
Not a sound from within.
They looked expectantly at the door. Each passing moment was causing the bitter cold of the sunless narrow lane to seep into their toes. Not for the first time Margery cursed inwardly for not wearing wooden pattens over shoes as she jumped from foot to foot to try and stop her toes from freezing. Emma, on the other hand, stood stoically, erect and immobile – save for a slight swaying on her heels.
“Oh, this is ridiculous!” as Margery strode to the door once again and rapped full force as it suddenly opened causing her to land a blow on a feeble old man who had finally managed to open it. She tried to lessen the blow, but in doing so caused her to fall past him into his dwelling.
The small man, looked curiously at the heap on the floor that was Margery. As he made to give assistance to her, Emma noticed that he had lost a portion of his leg and had difficulty bending over.
“Please, sir, let me, I am most terribly sorry for our intrusion,” as she squeezed past him into the room. Bending over Margery she hissed quietly. “What are you doing! Get up and apologise. Now!”
Soon the three were standing, a curious stillness of the three looking at each other, silently gauging and questioning. Emma waiting for Margery to apologise, the man waiting for an explanation and Margery’s eyes locked on the glow from a brazier glowing orange with heat.
“Please excuse my companion, she can be headstrong. Are you all right, do you wish to sit? Sorry, that is rude of me, this is your home. A beautiful home… and those simple tapestries, you must be very proud of…” and she continued a stream of chatter, not knowing where it was leading, trying to hide her embarrassment.
Standing almost on top of the brazier, heat returning to her body, Margery took pity on Emma interrupting her in mid-sentence.
“I really am sorry, sir, what more can I say?”
“Possibly tell me why?”
“I… I mean we,” Emma indicating the two of them, ” are looking for the lodgings of Walter the scribe from Greyfriars.”
“Yes, your search is over. Dear me, where are my manners. Sit, sit, sit. Can I offer some humble soup?”
“Thank you, no.” Emma replied quickly before Margery could make herself at home.
“Can you tell me Sir, did Walter play tables with you regularly?”
“Oh yes, indeed. That I can answer. Yes, and regularly.”
“More precisely. Did he over the last, say twenty days, every day? I am thinking around Compline?”
“My, what precise and unusual questioning. Did he or did he not?” He asked himself with that roguish twinkle returning. “You ask me to remember a fortnight and almost seven more nights.”
“That is what we ask. More specifically, Monday almost three weeks past now.”
“You know, Walter is a worthy opponent. When we started he was a complete novice and the game was over quickly, but he is a quick learner. Now, it is usually he that gains the upper hand. You know,” he paused to make the point, “I think he sometimes lets me win. What a fine fellow.”
“But my question did…”
“Oh yes, my apologies, I forgot. Yes, every day without fail, we sit here by the brazier, by its light, playing every evening. Except, of course, on the Sabbaths. Hmm. I will miss these games when he leaves.”
The smile was replaced by a wistful faraway look.
“Compline?”
“What did you say?” As he was jerked back to the present. “Oh yes Compline. We start before and the bell sounds mid-game. Yes, mid game. I have come to let it herald my demise at Walter’s superior hand. … You know, I don’t regret losing. We have fun. I will miss him… Do either of you women play? Would you like to learn?”
“No, never, too complicated for me.” Emma made for the door, beckoning Margery to unwrap herself from the brazier.
Once outside and their farewells offered, Margery found her voice again.
“Seynted Walter, his innocence is even stronger than Catherine’s.”
“Yes, indeed,” Emma agreed, uneasily. Another name struck out, and her Father’s crept upward again.
“I know what you are thinking, so stop it now woman. There is much more to be examined before we come to that conclusion!”
Only two more nights before… And we have… nothing! No, less than nothing. Ned and father summoned to attend – what for? Is father in danger again? She almost wept at the thought.
“I still think of the summons for Ned. What if Bale already has found someone to vouch for Thomas? What if father is held again on Friday?”
“Don’t be so downcast, Emma. Tomorrow we still have much to do. There is still that elusive pouch and, in my mind, I think the wax tablet was too quickly cast aside. Is it normal for a clerk to bring such an instrument home with him… I wonder… Cheer up, my great leader, tomorrow back to Greyfriars and ask for divine intervention from the friar. Yes?”
The Benedictine Compline bell tolled, marking another day lost. How our days are ruled by bells!
Emma straightened her shoulders.
“You are right. Tomorrow we go to Greyfriars. We send a messenger tonight. And Margery,” she met her friend’s eyes, “if the friar cannot help us, we go to the Guild-Master’s mistress again. Alice knows more than she told us. I felt it… No! What is wrong with me. The Guild-Master has more to lose, it is time he gave answers. It is decided. Greyfriars then… the Guild-Master.”
Margery studied her face, then smiled broadly. “I could hug you, Emma Fenwick!”
They linked arms, spirits rising. “Tonight,” Margery quipped, “we talk, sing and drink your best wines. My Goodman must occupy himself as he will. Are you with me on this?”
Ciaran Leamy - Author 