The Town House (14 page)

They fitted much better than the old ones.

‘Then … if you will come with me …’

We went along passages, up and down steps and at last came out into the open, where immediately I smelled the sour harsh scent of slow burning wood, like that which fills a room where a log has rolled off the hearth. I stopped and sniffed and said,

‘Did they get in then, after all?’ If so all my effort had been wasted and there would be no reward.

‘Nobody got
in
,’ he said gently. ‘We were prepared and the main gate was reinforced. They tried to batter it down, and failed, so they set it afire. We welcomed its destruction, it was never worthy of its place. The new one is to be made from cedar wood from the groves of Lebanon.’ His voice took on a dreamy ecstatic note. ‘Cedars are long lived trees. It may even be that St. Egbert’s new Gate may be made from a tree which cast its shade over Our Lord.’

‘But you said you were prepared.’

‘Oh yes. Our Abbot has fifty knights to call upon; there was time to reach two of them, and their menies. But our rule forbids us to strike the first blow. Once the Gate was burned and the attackers were inside … then the archers and pikemen went into action.’

‘And drove them off?’

‘Very easily I believe.’

Most cheerful news. ‘We were prepared,’ he said. ‘Time to reach two of them and their menies.’ All thanks to me!

We were walking along a path, grey paved, between two green lawns which ended in a laurel hedge through which the path went on. Behind
the fence was a low stone building, made of dressed flint and owning a high, arched doorway, flanked by several windows in each side. The windows were glassed and just caught the last rays of the sinking sun.

At the doorway the monk halted.

‘The Prior awaits you in the ante-room,’ he said.

I went in, blinking in the sudden light of a huge leaping fire and three or four candlestands. There was a long table in the centre of the room and at it a monk sat writing. The Prior stood at his elbow, reading every word he wrote. He gave me a brief glance of recognition, looked down again and said,

‘That will do well. Seal it.’

The scribing monk took a bar of sealing wax, held it to a candle, dropped a great blob on the bottom of the parchment and the Prior took up a gold seal and stamped it down. Then he rolled the parchment into a tube and said to me,

‘There you are. Smelling sweeter, I trust. Follow me.’

He opened a door at the back of the room and I followed him.

It was like walking into an oven, but the little figure seated in a chair close to the fire was all shrouded in fur, a great shawl of it lay across his shoulders, and another covered his legs. A woollen hood such as peasants wear in the fields in winter was pulled low over his ears and brow. His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut and his lips a thin blue line. He looked a hundred years old. Only his eyes were lively.

The Prior went close to him and said in a high, penetrating voice,

‘My Lord Abbot, here is the man, Martin, whom you wished to see.’

Turning back to me he said, ‘The Abbot is very deaf. Speak loudly or not at all.’

In a high, thin monotone the Abbot Said,

‘Ah yes, yes indeed. We owe you a great deal. I wished to thank you. Also I wished to hear why it was that you sided with us rather than with your fellows.’

I said, in my loudest voice, ‘They refused me admission to the Guild.’

He gave me an odd little smile and looked over my shoulder.

‘What does he say?’

‘He says that the townsfolk refused to admit him to the Guild.’

‘Ah, those Guilds. Most regrettable! Becoming so arbitrary. I’m not quite sure how far the Guilds were involved in last night’s affair. …’ he looked inquiringly at the Prior. ‘However. The Guild refused to admit you, so you turned against the Guild. And very fortunate for us that you
did. Quite right of course in
any
circumstance.’ He nodded and smiled at me approvingly and I thought that now was my chance.

‘I had another reason, my lord,’ I said loudly.

Once again the Prior was obliged to repeat what I had said.

‘Indeed. And what was that?’

I turned helplessly to the Prior who said, with a sly smile,

‘Now you see the truth of what I said. I
am
my lord’s ear. Very well, tell me and I will speak for you.’

‘They speak of clearing Squatters Row. I built a little hut there. I know I had no right to build, but I didn’t know at the time. It is the only home I have and it is not unsightly. I wondered … I mean I thought that if the information I brought you served your purpose, you might perhaps overlook … might allow my little hut to remain.’

This stumbling speech the Prior compressed into two clear sentences. I watched the old man’s face and saw with dismay that the request found no favour with him.

‘The Cellarer tells me that the spot is a disgrace, a mere rubbish heap thrown up against our walls. It does not offend my eyes or nose, I never go abroad now. But we have visitors. What do
they
think when they see human beings living like pigs within arms’ reach of the most splendid shrine in Christendom? The Cellarer tells me that nobody entering by the East Gate can fail to see the place – and smell it.’

It was, once again, a verdict against which there was no appeal. Forbidden to be a priest, I thought; forbidden to be married; forbidden to be a journeyman; and now, forbidden to remain in my hut.

‘You have the parchment?’ the old man asked the Prior.

‘Signed and sealed, my lord.’

‘You see, we had thought of rewarding you by giving you what all poor men seem most to desire – a piece of land. Perhaps you know it – just outside the town on the south – the Old Vineyard they call it. The blight persists there and I understand that we already have as much acreage under plough as we can handle. So it is yours, in perpetuity, in return for a red rose on the last day of June each year – a formality which shouldn’t cause you any inconvenience. Give him his copyhold.’

The Prior pushed the rolled-up parchment into my hand.

I tried to shout my thanks. Whether he heard or not I could not know, but the Abbot nodded and smiled again. Then he said,

‘On the other hand it is poor gratitude which gives with one hand and takes away with the other. Also they tell me that the land is full of
stumps, which must be cleared before it can yield any crop. What will you eat while you labour, and where will you live? I think’, he said, looking past me at the Prior, ‘we should give him some money, too.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Give him fifty marks.’

‘My lord! Fifty marks is the scutage for the three Flaxhams in one year.’

‘Sir Alain and Sir Godfrey reached us, with their men, did they not? If that rabble had made an entry it would have cost us fifty marks many times over. Fifty marks is no more than his due. Give it to him.’

The Prior pulled aside a piece of tapestry hanging on the wall and opened the door behind it, went through and closed the door carefully behind him.

I said, ‘My lord, I know not in what words to thank you.’

The Abbot said, ‘It is useless to speak to me. For some reason known only to God I am deaf to all voices but
his
.’ He looked towards the door. ‘Very occasionally he thinks that gives him the right to dictate to me.’ He smiled and nodded his head.

I thought that if I could not speak I could act my gratitude, so I dropped to my knees, took the old man’s thin cold hand and kissed it. He withdrew it hastily and patted my shoulder.

‘Don’t let the aspect lead you to think that you can grow vines on that field. Six years ago the blight struck there and though we rooted out every stump and ploughed it over and laid it fallow for a year and then planted strong new stock, still the blight remained. I went out to see for myself I remember – one of my last rides. It was a sad sight – a very sad sight. Ah …’

The Prior returned, carefully closing the door again and drawing the tapestry over it. He carried a linen bag tied at the neck. He said to me, in the cool, amused voice which showed that he had recovered his composure,

‘My Lord Abbot must set high store on the people of Baildon. Our Lord Himself was betrayed for only thirty pieces. You have all this – and the Potter’s Field as well!’

He could have said sharper things and caused me no twinge.

‘Please’, I said, ‘tell him how very grateful I am. All my life I have been so very poor … and lately lame as well. All that I have tried has been of no avail. Now I can begin again. I am so very thank …’ I choked and tears came into my eyes.

The Abbot gave me one of his bright shrewd glances.

‘You would be wise – for your own sake – to conceal the source of your money.’

I nodded to show that I understood and the movement brought two tears spilling over.

‘We are grateful to you,’ he said. ‘Go in peace.’

The Prior came to the door with me.

‘The East Gate is nearest for you. Besides the Great Gate is closed.’

The clerk, without being bidden, rose from the table and led the way. On this journey I saw several groups of pikemen and archers as well as a few men in armour, but they, like everything else were just the background of a dream to me.

It was almost dusk. I intended to go to Webster’s and fetch Kate and the children home, for the last time. I would put my arms about her and say – ‘Don’t ask questions now. I will tell you everything when we are home, but, sweetheart, we are
rich
!’ We would walk slowly down Cooks Row, that street which we so often avoided because of the sight and scent of food so far out of our reach, and we would buy everything we fancied. When we were home I would make a fire, not sparing the wood because in future we could have as much wood as we wanted. Over supper I would tell her the story and speak of what I planned. Dear Kate, she should never lift a finger outside her own house again.

Something sloughed off my soul, like the scab from an old sore and all at once I was able to look beyond that happy supper table. Kate and I could go to bed together, properly, again. Another child would be welcome now. In every way we would start anew.

I reached Webster’s gate just as one of the wool-pickers, a bent old woman with screwed up, half-blind eyes, was coming out. She stopped by me and said,

‘Kate ain’t bin to work today. Master’s rare and vexed.’

I turned and began to run as quickly as I could in my new shoes, towards Squatters Row.

Interval

The man with the bear came into Baildon just before dusk. November days are short. They are cold, too, and the man, heavily muffled, thickset and clumsy, might, in outline, almost have been another bear, forced
to stay upright. As though to prove his claim to be human, he talked to himself as he walked. Very often children, keeping at a safe distance, would call after him, ‘Talk to yourself, talk to the Devil.’

He was telling himself that leading a dancing bear was all right in the summer, but misery in winter. He said there ought to be a place where bears could be left at the end of September and collected at the beginning of April, well fed and kept in training. There was no such place. He reminded himself that even when a bear leader had money for a lodging for himself and could find a place that had a stable where the bear could sleep, nine times out of ten they wouldn’t have you in – horses didn’t like the bear smell.

Every time he reminded himself of this, and felt the bitter wind, he looked at the bear with hatred and dragged viciously at the chain. Every time he did so the bear looked at him with a curiously similar expression. In their imposed physical likeness to one another, in the flashes of hatred, and in their dependence each upon the other for the basic necessities of living, they were like an old married couple.

The man’s name was Tom, and he was known on the roads as Pert Tom; the bear, neutered at the beginning of his training, was called Owd Muscovy.

As Tom had suspected, there was no lodging for man
and
bear; he took the rebuffs philosophically. It was some years since he had been in Baildon, but he remembered it well and knew of a fairly snug place in which to spend the night, a place where several people lived between the buttresses of the Abbey wall, and made their little fires and were willing – for a small consideration – to allow a stranger to warm himself and cook a bite of food. On his last visit there had been a woman, living behind a screen of tarred canvas, who – again for a consideration – had been willing to grant other favours. That, he remembered, must have been all of five years ago; probably she’d moved on, and in any case she would have aged. Still in November a man couldn’t be too particular.