The Lammas Feast

Two

John Overbecks was there, with his apprentice, as I had guessed he would be at this time of the morning, baking his second batch of bread, ready for the hucksters when they arrived to refill their baskets. As in London, so in Bristol — although in no other town that I knew of — loaves could only be bought from these women, and this had been the city law for the past five years. Bakers could sell all other confectionery from their shops or market stalls, but not the main item of their trade. While it ensured a living for the hucksters, to me it was a pointless ordinance; as a staple item of our diet, bread was constantly in demand and I doubt if the hucksters would have suffered had the bakers sold it as well. (But then, I have always believed that those in authority feel obliged to make things as difficult as possible for the rest of us, just to prove to themselves that they are in charge.)

The apprentice, Dick Hodge, was sieving flour through a finely woven cloth, while Master Overbecks was removing loaves from the biggest of the wall ovens with one of those long-handled wooden spatulas that is called a pele. He put the hot bread on the trestle table behind him, spinning round lightly on his toes with all the graceful ease of a much younger and lighter man. His was a heavy, stocky build, and beneath the white baker’s cap, the wings of brown hair were streaked with grey. But the hazel eyes glowed with enthusiasm for life and his trade.

‘Roger! Mistress Chapman!’ he exclaimed as soon as he saw us, and beamed with pleasure. ‘And how are the little ones?’ He put down the pele and stooped to give the two elder children a floury hug.

Elizabeth and Nicholas returned his embrace readily enough, but their eyes were fixed on another trestle table close to the smaller oven, where cakes and buns had been placed to cool, ready for sale in the shop when it opened. John Overbecks chuckled.

‘I know what you’d like,’ he said, and fetched them each a piece of gingerbread, decorated with cloves and box leaves. Next, he bent and tickled a somnolent Adam under the chin — our younger son opened one eye a slit, belched, then went back to sleep — before turning his attention to Adela and me.

‘Let me guess what you’ve come for,’ he said, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘You want me to bake your Lammastide bread.’

‘Not just bake it,’ I explained. ‘Make it — if you would.’ I glanced uncertainly around me. ‘Though I can tell that you’re busy.’

I could see scraps of torn parchment covered in drawings; plans, no doubt, of the sculptured centrepieces for the Lammas feast. I remembered Margaret’s words and asked Master Overbecks about the Garden of Eden and the three-tiered ship.

He admitted that this year he had been chosen as chief baker for the feasts of the various guilds. He was pink with pleasure at the honour thus conferred on him.

‘So you see,’ he continued, ‘I hadn’t planned to take on any extra work, but for such good friends and customers. . well, I’ll make an exception. Just as long as your order isn’t a big one.’

‘The present state of our purse won’t allow us to make the order a big one,’ Adela responded drily, knowing nothing about the two gold pieces I had hidden under the cottage floor. ‘Just a couple of loaves for Lammastide, Master Overbecks, if you could manage them.’

If that were all, the baker was happy to oblige.

‘So what will it be?’ he asked. ‘Rose-petal bread? Saffron bread? Parsley, thistle, violet, plum? Lemon bread? I can do you all the colours of the rainbow. The plums are very ripe this year, and will tint your dough a really deep shade of purple. And the saffron will give a lovely rich golden-orange brown.’

Adela knew better than to take such an important decision on her own. Elizabeth and Nicholas were consulted, with the result that a loaf of rose-petal bread and one of plum were eventually decided upon.

‘A wise choice,’ Master Overbecks told them, though I suspected he would have said that whatever they had chosen. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘I love this time of year; the blessing of the grain and the harvest. Loaf-Mass-tide, to give it its proper, old-fashioned name. The procession around the town, the open-air games. .’

‘The rain,’ I cut in gloomily, and was scolded by my wife for putting what she called a damper on things.

‘An apt phrase! A very apt phrase,’ chuckled Master Overbecks approvingly. ‘Now, is there anything else I can do for you good people while you’re here?’

We could see he was anxious to get back to his baking, so we dragged Nicholas and Elizabeth away from the trestle table, where they were eyeing up some buns, sticky with raisins and honey. We were about to take our leave when the bakery door burst open, and we were confronted by Jane Overbecks, holding the little black and white dog in her arms. There was a wild look about her. Her almost jet-black hair was unconfined by any cap, and lay loose across her shoulders. One of the sleeves of her blue linen gown had come unstitched from the bodice, and I noticed that she was barefoot. She wore a golden hoop in one ear, but seemed to have lost its fellow.

She stopped abruptly as soon as she saw us, and was poised for immediate flight when her eyes lighted on Adam. She at once released the struggling dog — the poor animal was then seized and smothered by an ecstatic Nicholas and Elizabeth — and fell to her knees beside the little pull-along cart. She put out a finger and began stroking the baby’s downy cheek, an even stranger, wilder look on her face than before. I saw Adela take a hasty step forward, before making a great effort to check herself. But the lioness was ready to spring to the defence of her cub, and who could blame her?

‘Jane won’t harm him, Mistress Chapman,’ John Overbecks said quietly. ‘She’s very fond of children.’ He went across to his wife and touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Let the little one be, my love. He’s sleeping sound. You don’t want to wake him.’

But at that moment, with his usual bad timing, Adam opened his eyes, squinted up into Jane Overbecks’s face and started to scream; the special ear-splitting scream that he normally reserved for nights, just as I managed to nod off after a hard day’s peddling. (He had the most powerful set of lungs I’ve ever heard in a baby, and still has today.) Adela was beside him in an instant, snatching him up and cradling him in her arms.

Jane Overbecks sprang to her feet with a wail like a lost soul and fled from the bakery in tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ Adela apologized ruefully. ‘That was foolish of me.’

John Overbecks was understanding.

‘Natural enough, Mistress Chapman, that you should wish to protect your child. But, like I said, Jane wouldn’t have hurt him. It’s men she fears. I fancy she may have been. .’ He glanced sideways at the children, but they were still busy playing with the dog. All the same, he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I fancy she may have been raped when she was a girl, but I’ve never managed to get the whole story out of Marion. Sister Jerome, as I suppose I should call her now. I know there was some unpleasantness. They were orphans and came from a very isolated community on the edge of Exmoor, where the law of the land was very little regarded. I think that’s why, in the end, Marion decided they must run away. At first, she was afraid that they might be pursued, but no one ever came after them. At least, not to my knowledge. In any case, I promised her my protection. You learn to fend for yourself when you’re soldiering abroad.’ He had grown sombre and quite unlike his usual, cheerful self, but suddenly his spirits revived. He gave a broad grin and rescued the little mongrel — no more than a puppy, I could see that now — from the children’s clutches and added, ‘Two Lammas loaves it is then, Mistress Chapman. One rose-petal red and the other plum purple.’

Adela returned Adam to his cart and goose-feather pillow. He had stopped screaming and was seductively blowing bubbles instead. (There has always been a strong, histrionic streak in that lad, and I think that day was the first time I really noticed it.)

To show there was no ill feeling, the baker accompanied us as far as the street, leading the way through the shop, which he opened by letting down the front shutter. This also served as the counter, and he shouted to his apprentice to start bringing out the cakes and buns ready for sale. Then he unlocked a small door alongside and we stepped out into High Street.

Quite by chance, I glanced across at the rival bakery on the opposite side of this busy thoroughfare. Walter Godsmark had disappeared and was no longer propping up his master’s wall, but the shop had not yet begun trading. Just at that moment, however, the front door was opened from within and two men emerged. I immediately recognized Jasper Fairbrother’s burly form. (He was a handsome man and knew it, as was evidenced by his arrogant stance and the disdainful curl of his lips.) But to my surprise, I also recognized his companion. It was the man who had disembarked earlier from the Breton ship moored in Saint Nicholas Backs, and who had passed us as we crossed over from the bridge. He and the baker seemed to be having some sort of argument, with a certain amount of gesticulation on the stranger’s part, and the clenched-fist, I’m-bigger-than-you threats from Jasper. Which is precisely the attitude I should have expected from that bully.

‘There’s the young Breton we saw getting off the ship,’ I said to Adela. ‘Over there, talking to Master Fairbrother.’

Both she and John Overbecks followed the direction of my gaze.

‘Why do you think he’s a Breton?’ the baker asked curiously.

I explained briefly about the Breton sailors and how I came to have a rudimentary knowledge of the language.

He slapped me on the back. ‘Your husband’s a man of many parts, Mistress Chapman,’ he grinned, but there was an ironic inflection to his tone that made me uncomfortable.

I didn’t much care, either, for Adela’s answering smile.

‘Oh, he’s a clever fellow all right, Master Overbecks,’ she said. ‘I have it on the very best authority. He told me so himself.’

John Overbecks chuckled deep in his throat. I decided it was high time to go home before my good opinion of myself was entirely undermined.

I glanced across the street again, to find that this time the tables had been turned, and that the stranger and Jasper Fairbrother were staring at me. They had stopped arguing and, with a jerk of his head, the younger man was plainly asking the older a question. It was impossible to hear what he said because of the noise of the traffic, the ringing of bells from neighbouring churches, and the cries of the street-sellers, all advertising their wares at the tops of their voices. But it was obvious to me that he was asking who I was.

Before I could cross the road, however, to demand that he explain his interest, Jasper took him by the elbow and ushered him back indoors. I toyed with the idea of going over and knocking for admittance, but then told myself not to be so foolish. The Breton’s interest in me was undoubtedly no greater than mine in him: he had seen me staring and was mildly curious to know my reason for doing so. He and the baker had merely retired in order to settle whatever point of difference there was between them, rather than stand quarrelling in the street.

Adela touched my arm.

‘Roger, we must go. We’re keeping Master Overbecks from his work.’

The baker disclaimed the suggestion, but waved us goodbye with an air of relief. A queue was already forming in front of the counter to buy his cakes and buns, and as we passed Saint Mary le Port Street, I could see several of the hucksters on their way back to collect more loaves. Inside his shop, John Overbecks was whistling merrily.

There was a happy and contented man.

I saw Adela and the children safely home to Lewin’s Mead, the other side of the Frome Gate, then set off back again to Redcliffe and Margaret Walker’s cottage to pick up my cudgel and chapman’s pack. I had left them there rather than struggle with their unwieldy proportions in addition to my growing family’s demands on my time and energy.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun high in a cloudless sky, the narrow streets slabbed with shadow. Reflected light from the River Frome rippled up and over the ships moored along its banks, as it murmured on its way to its conjunction with the Avon. The city of Bristol, snug within its walls, was cosily ensconced between the two rivers.

The Redcliffe Ward was on the far side of the Avon, almost like a separate town, cocooned in a loop of that particular river, with a wall on its landward side, securing it from the wider world. Outside the Redcliffe Gate stood William Canynges’s church of Saint Mary the Virgin and, beyond Temple Gate, lay the road south. It was still, as it had always been, a close-knit weaving community, and for most of her adult life, Margaret Walker had worked as a spinner for Alderman Alfred Weaver. Now that he was dead, and his looms sold by his heir and brother, who lived in London, she continued to work for his successor, Master Thomas Adelard.

She was spinning when I re-entered her cottage. She had cleared away the dirty dinner bowls and dishes, and settled back at her wheel, humming to herself as she did so. Seeing her so busily employed, I hoped to pick up my pack and leave with nothing more than a friendly nod and a smile; but after five years of her acquaintance, I should have known better. She stopped the wheel and fixed me with a gimlet eye.

‘You need to find a bigger cottage, Roger,’ she said without preamble. ‘Elizabeth and Nicholas are growing up. You and Adela must find things very difficult, all of you together in one room.’

I knew what she was getting at, but chose to play the innocent.

‘But I’m out nearly all day,’ I answered cheerfully. ‘And I’m the one who takes up most space.’

She tapped an impatient foot. ‘You know what I’m talking about. Those children are beginning to notice things. They’ll be asking awkward questions soon. You and Adela need some privacy. Or will do, just as soon as she recovers from Adam’s birth.’ I must have coloured slightly because she snorted. ‘Don’t pretend you’re embarrassed at a little plain speaking.’

I wasn’t embarrassed, not really. But I didn’t want to discuss the intimacies of Adela’s and my life with Margaret. All the same, I could no longer pretend to be ignorant of her meaning.

‘You and your husband brought up two children in this cottage,’ I pointed out.

‘So I know what I’m talking about. Like most other people, Adam and I didn’t have any choice in the matter, but you do. Ask that precious Duke of yours for some money. You’ve done him enough favours, by all accounts.’

I thought once more of the two gold pieces secreted under our cottage floor, and had to concentrate hard in order to prevent myself from blushing guiltily. Margaret could read my mind at sixty paces.

‘The Duke of Gloucester has retired to his Yorkshire estates,’ I said. ‘I doubt he’ll come south again in a hurry. He hates the Queen’s family too much; even more so now that they’ve at last managed to have Clarence executed.’

‘Oh, politics!’ Margaret shrugged. ‘I know nothing about them, and don’t wish to. But Duke Richard owes you something, Roger.’

I picked up my things, echoing her shrug with one of my own.

‘I’ve no desire to be beholden to any man. What services I’ve rendered the Duke in the past, I’ve done because I wanted to.’ Not strictly true, but Margaret wasn’t to know that.

She prepared to resume her spinning. ‘I wash my hands of you, then. You always were a stubborn, proud, independent — ’ she paused, looking me up and down — ‘handsome great lummox,’ she finished with a rueful smile. ‘Oh, go away! I can’t stay angry with you for long, more’s the pity. I blame your parents. They should have leathered some sense into you when you were young.’

I grinned. ‘My father died before I was four, but my mother had a good, strong arm. Unfortunately, I soon grew as big as she was, which made beating me difficult.’ I kissed her cheek and shouldered my pack, then left before she decided to reopen the subject. My former mother-in-law was a persistent woman.

Nevertheless, there was a lot in what she said. The tiny, single-roomed cottage that I rented from Saint James’s Priory was getting too crowded for three children and two adults (not to mention the dog we had yet to acquire, but which we surely would if Elizabeth and Nicholas had anything to say in the matter). And although it was as much as the majority of people achieved in a lifetime, I could now afford better.

But for the moment, I was loath to commit my new-found wealth to any project. I had discovered a miserly streak in my naturally sunny, open-handed nature, and for the present was quite happy simply to contemplate the existence of those two gold pieces tucked away in their hiding-place. Of course, this sense of security couldn’t possibly last. Adela was bound to discover their existence sooner or later and then the fat really would be in the fire. She and Margaret would be making plans for their disposal almost before she had finished jingling them in her palm.

However, the only decision I was prepared to consider just now was in which direction to peddle my goods, having visited the hamlets and outlying houses south of the city earlier that morning. I walked the few paces from Margaret’s cottage through into Temple Street, and was still debating whether to go north, west or east, when a sudden influx of travellers entered by the Temple Gate. There had evidently been some hold-up — probably while the gatekeeper sobered up after too much ale with his dinner — and I found myself surrounded by people. I was jostled back against the wall of a house with such violence that I was almost brought to my knees.

When I recovered my balance, I glanced round angrily for the ill-mannered yokels who had elbowed me aside with such ferocity, and found myself looking after the retreating backs of two men who were, surprisingly, both bigger than myself. They were obviously a pair, laughing and talking together, and I hesitated for the best part of half a minute, debating the advisability of picking a quarrel with either of them. Everyone else was giving them a very wide berth. In the end, however, anger got the better of common sense, and I caught them up as they veered to their left, towards Bristol Bridge. I tapped the slightly smaller of the two on his arm.

He stopped and swung back to face me. He had a pockmarked face beneath a thatch of spiky fair hair and cold, grey eyes that at first sight appeared almost colourless. I had not been mistaken in either his girth or his height, and, close to, he appeared even larger than he had done at a distance. He must have stood well over six feet in his good leather boots, because he topped me by a couple of inches. His mate, brown-haired and brown-eyed, was perhaps half an inch taller again. Except for me, they towered above everyone around them.

‘What do you want?’ the pockmarked one demanded, but looked a little wary when he realized that I was not the average dwarf he had been expecting.

I told him. ‘You tried to knock me over back there.’

The grey eyes raked me up and down. ‘So?’ he asked insolently. ‘You must have been blocking my path.’

He was not local. His speech did not have the West Country burr — the hard ‘r’s and ugly diphthonged vowels that we in this part of the world inherited from our Saxon forebears — but he was not from up country, either. The way he spoke reminded me of my friend, Philip Lamprey, and his wife, Jean. A Londoner then, which explained the man’s cocksureness, and also that of his companion. Although neither was by any means a dandy, their clothes were good, a narrow trimming of budge decorating the hems of their tunics. (As always in this country, the latest clothing law, issued by the King only twelve months before, was being steadfastly ignored. If they could afford to, the English continued to wear whatever took their fancy.)

‘I was not blocking your path,’ I retorted, beginning to lose my temper. ‘Furthermore, I live in this city, and I take great exception to strangers pushing me aside in my own streets.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ snarled my opponent, his narrowed eyes showing an angry glint. One great hand shot out and gripped my throat. ‘Well, let me tell you, Chapman. .’

‘Having problems, Roger?’ asked a voice behind me, and a moment later Burl Hodge, a tenter who lived and worked in Redcliffe, appeared at my side. He was accompanied by Jack, the elder of his sons, both their round, freckled faces puckered belligerently and two admirable pairs of fists bunched ready for a fight.

The taller of the men tapped his friend on the shoulder.

‘Let it go, Robin,’ he urged. (The name Robin had surely never been more mistakenly bestowed on anyone than on this great oaf.) ‘We’re not here to cause trouble.’ He turned to me and smiled ingratiatingly, although I could tell that the effort was cracking his face. ‘We’re sorry if we jostled you, Chapman. It was an accident. No offence was intended.’

There was nothing I could do but accept his apology. To do otherwise would have been churlish, even though I could see that the first man was hoping I would still give him an excuse for a brawl. But I stepped back, holding my hands palm upwards in a gesture of peace, and wished them both God speed.

Burl and I stood watching as the two men disappeared between the houses on the bridge.

‘Not here to cause trouble, eh?’ Burl murmured. ‘Then what are they here for, I wonder. I don’t like strangers who are bigger than me. And I particularly don’t like strangers who are bigger than you, Roger. That really worries me.’

‘It’s the start of Saint James’s fair in a few days’ time,’ said Jack, who was an apprentice weaver with Master Thomas Adelard. ‘Maybe they’re here in connection with that. Securing the necessary licence for a stall.’

His father cuffed him playfully around the ear. ‘I can’t see that pair doing a nice line in bric-a-brac,’ he laughed. ‘Murder and mayhem, perhaps. Pretty gewgaws for ladies, no.’

‘That’s silly,’ Jack objected. ‘They could be selling anything. .’

‘I saw Dick this morning,’ I interrupted in order to prevent what I could see was going to be a pointless argument. ‘He seems to have settled in well at the bakery.’

Burl nodded. ‘John Overbecks is a good man and a kind master. She’s a bit queer, but Dick says if you don’t say too much to her and leave her alone, she won’t bother you. Says Master Overbecks adores her.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, each one to his own taste! I’d rather have a bright, cheerful woman like my Jenny any day. And now I must get back to work. The cloth dries so fast this weather, and if it’s too dry, it won’t stretch between the tenter hooks. Time you were off, too, young Jack.’ He clapped me on the back as a sign of farewell, and strode off in the direction of the tenting field.

‘I’m on an errand for Master Adelard,’ Jack said, ‘so I’ll come with you as far as the bakery and say hello to Dick.’ He brightened. ‘We might overtake those two bravos.’

‘I wouldn’t try renewing acquaintance with that couple,’ I advised him. Some lads have no nose for danger.

We crossed the bridge and walked together up High Street until my companion said goodbye and joined the crowd of people milling round John Overbecks’s counter, calling out a greeting to his brother, who was serving. On the spur of the moment, I decided to walk along Saint Mary le Port Street and work my way round to the castle.

I had actually passed the church when I stopped and then retraced my last few steps. Something moved inside the porch as two substantial shadows retreated even further into the blackness. After a moment’s hesitation, I shrugged and went on my way, whistling tunelessly — as I have said in previous chronicles, I have absolutely no ear for music — as though I had seen nothing, and was mistaken in thinking that I ever had. But as I reached the far end of the alleyway, I looked back over my shoulder. A head was craning round the side of the church porch, its owner staring in the direction of John Overbecks’s bakery.