The Wicked Winter

Chapter Two

Margaret had shown great foresight when she told me not to make promises that I might not wish to keep. I had already been on the road for ten days, and although I was less than a dozen miles from Bristol as the crow flies — and could indeed, with steady walking, have been home within the allotted span I was still moving in a south-westerly direction towards the coast and the broad channel of water which is the Severn estuary.

In spite of the bitter cold and the iron-hard ground, I was savouring my freedom. I had not hurried, searching out every settlement, however small, within a two-day journey both north and south of the main pack-horse track. And everywhere I had been welcomed and feted as one braving the hazardous weather to bring a little pleasure and distraction into people's lives. For the winter months are a dreary, dead time in isolated villages and hamlets, with nothing much for the inhabitants to do except work and sleep once the festivities of Plough Monday are over. Even on the larger farms and holdings the lambing season keeps the men busy out in the fields all day, and the women are glad to see a fresh face and hear city gossip, as well as being able to replenish their stocks of needles, thread and other such haberdashery.

But that particular January there was another diversion for the good folk of north Somerset to talk about. Wherever I went, however remote the homestead, the name of Friar Simeon seemed to be on everyone's lips, either as having not long departed or as being expected within the next few days. Those who had just heard him preach were distinguished from their fellows by being somewhat more subdued in manner and paying a greater attention to evening and morning prayers. I could not help wondering how long this new-found piety would last; and, in those places where he had preceded my arrival by several days, I noted that the after-effects of his sermon were already beginning to fade. Nevertheless, his message was generally applauded by members of the older generation who deplored, as had my mother-in-law, declining moral standards amongst the young.

By noon on the tenth day the weather, which had improved somewhat during the past week, once again turned bitterly cold. It had been a morning of heavy frost, and the grass crunched under my feet as I descended a steep slope towards the huddle of cottages at the bottom. On the opposite side of the valley the round-shouldered hills sparkled here and there with rime as a thin winter sunshine, cold as steel, penetrated the gathering clouds. Now and then a spatter of rain stung my face, and above a distant swathe of woodland I could see the bitten-off stump of a rainbow, which sailors call a winddog.

The children of the village, those not needed by their elders to help in the home or out of doors, were keeping warm with a game of camping, the two 'armies' drawn up at either end of a stretch of level ground beside the stream whose bed was the valley floor. Their 'gauntlet' was an old shoe which had seen better days, judging by the way its sole gaped from its upper. But it proved to be an excellent flier as, with a shouted challenge, it was hurled by the captain of one side high over the heads of his opponents, to land in the stunted scrub and whin behind them. And while the 'enemy' searched desperately to retrieve the token, their numbers rapidly diminished as they were taken 'prisoner' and dragged off to the other end of the field. At last, however, the shoe was discovered and flung back with a cry of triumph, to embed itself in a clump of willows growing close to the bank. The challenge was thus reversed, and while I watched, the 'enemy' managed to recover several of its own side and take captive a couple of their opponents as well. I smiled to myself, recalling the many games of camping played in my youth, but I could not wait to see which side was victorious. With sufficiently skilful players the business of capturing all the other team might last for hours.

The goodwives of this isolated community were as warmly welcoming as their sisters had been elsewhere, and so overpowering was their hospitality that I eventually found myself forced to refuse some of the food and drink being pressed upon me. I wondered briefy if I were sickening from one of those ailments so common in winter months, but there are, after all, only so many oatcakes and so many stoups of ale that anyone can eat and drink within a certain time. And after an hour or so I had reached my limit, reluctant as I was to say so.

The last place I visited was the home of the miller and his wife where I lingered unduly, eventually allowing myself to be persuaded to stop to dinner. I had intended to press forward while the weather held, for several of the village greybeards, country-wise in all such matters, had predicted snow within the next few hours, and before that happened I wished to find shelter where my presence would prove less of an embarrassment were I to be holed up there for many days.

These people were poor, and the addition of an extra mouth to feed for more than a single meal would quickly deplete their store of winter provisions.

But the miller and his wife had a daughter, a pretty, dark-haired girl with sparkling black eyes and a buxom figure who, I was certain, must attract the local youths like bees to heather. She was the most attractive young woman I had seen for quite a while, and although there could not possibly be anything between us — apart from the accidental brushing of hands and touching of feet beneath the table — it was nevertheless a pleasure just to sit and watch her eager face bent over the contents of my pack. She fingered the ribbons longingly and tried to cajole her mother into buying one, but the goodwife was adamant in her refusal.

'We can't afford it, child, and that's a fact. And it's no good appealing to your father,' she added as the miller, dusty with flour, came in from the mill, ravenous for his dinner. 'He'll tell you the same.' And she glared threateningly at her husband, daring him to gainsay her authority.

The miller tousled his daughter's head regretfully, but tried to make the best of things.

'What occasions do you have, lass, for the wearing of such finery? I doubt if that great lout, Mark Wilson, will think you any the prettier for a ribbon in your hair. He's besotted enough already.'

The girl looked so crestfallen that I pushed the bundle of ribbons towards her.

'Here, choose one,' I said. 'It will pay for my dinner.' Her delight, and the more restrained but no less warmly expressed gratitude of her parents, amply rewarded me for the loss of the ribbon's value, even though she selected an expensive one of dark red silk which I had purchased from a Portuguese merchantman, anchored in the Backs, before I left Bristol. Moreover, the two bowls of fish stew (it being a Friday) which I ate, washed down by several cups of homemade ale, made up for any regrets I might have harboured for my impulsive gesture.

The two women were anxious for news of the outside world, and the information that I had been in London as late its last September was greeted with breathless inquiries regarding anything to do with the court. Had I ever seen the King? Or the Queen? Or any member of the royal family? What were the latest London fashions? Was it true that the women there painted their faces with white lead? At this point the miller snorted and remarked thickly through a mouthful of stew that much good it would do either of them to know the answers to such questions, but that did not deter his wife and daughter. The set of a sleeve, the shape of a bodice, the fall of a skirt were as meat and drink to them here, in their isolated little world.

I disclaimed any detailed knowledge of, or indeed any interest in, the subject of women's fashion; but as for the rest, and as with Brother Simeon, there was a great deal I could have told them had I been so minded. However, it was doubtful that they would have believed me even had I felt at liberty to do so. Instead, I satisfied their curiosity with a story about the Duke of Clarence who, sitting on a Commission of Oyer and Terminer in Westminster Hall, noticed that the Mayor had nodded off during the proceedings. My lord had thereupon observed jeeringly to the next witness, 'Speak softly, sir, for His Worship is asleep!' A remark which had caused near rioting in the streets. 'For no one, not the King himself, can insult the Mayor of London and get away with it. The Londoners won't stand for it. Their Mayor and Aldermen mean more to them than any member of the royal family, and the Corporation's dignity and rights are jealously guarded. In the end, the Duke had humbly to beg Mayor Owlgrave's pardon — but only after King Edward had intervened and ordered his brother to make his apologies.'

'They say there's little love lost between King Edward and the Lord Clarence,' the miller's wife put in. 'At least, that's the gossip that reaches our ears from passing travellers.'

I thought about this. At last I answered carefully, 'He surely doesn't have the regard for him that he does for Prince Richard, and he certainly doesn't trust him. But that's not surprising considering the number of times that Prince George has turned his coat. Yet the King has also forgiven him on an equal number of occasions, so I'd reckon he must be fond of him. Indeed, I'd say that there's a strong bond of affection between all three royal brothers.'

The miller laid down his spoon and looked thoughtfully at me across the table. 'You seem remarkably well informed for a chapman.'

I had grown so accustomed to this accusation that I had my answer ready and replied easily, 'No more than any other man who listens to alehouse tattle and is aware of what's happening in the world around him. I'm capable of drawing my own conclusions with the best of them, though they might not agree with those of Hob or Jack.'

Fortunately my host seemed happy with this explanation.

He cut a slab of ewe's milk cheese and crammed it into his mouth, thus making any further conversation with him impossible for several minutes. I rose to my feet.

'I must be on my way,' I said, going to the door and glancing up at the sky. 'Judging by the position of the sun, it's less than an hour short of noon, and the days draw in so quickly at this time of year. How far is the nearest village to this, if I continue travelling westward?'

The miller's wife joined me at the door, but before she could make answer our attention was diverted by the sound of hoofs, and then two horses and their riders came splashing through the icy stream. The animals snorted, tossing their heads, their breath hanging on the air in clouds of steam.

Feet slithered on the frozen grasses as the men drew rein and slid, shivering, to the ground.

They were both clothed in warm but modest homespun and wrapped against the cold in thick frieze cloaks. Their boots, although well worn, were of leather, come by, I guessed, at second or third-hand. Round, well-fed faces were at present nipped and pinched by the biting wind, but sturdy limbs and the beginning of a paunch on the shorter of the two suggested a master who nourished and looked after his servants. Both men were young, about my own age, and had the dark Celtic colouring of the Welsh, a common enough occurrence along the borders between England and Wales, where the two races have met and mingled for centuries. But when they spoke it was in the flat, rough-edged tones of their Saxon forefathers; true Wessex men.

The slightly older and thinner of the pair addressed the miller's wife.

'We're lookin' fer Friar Simeon. Has he been 'ere? We know 'im to be in these parts.'

It was the miller himself who answered, having joined us at the door.

'The friar were here more'n a week since. Why? Who wants t' know?'

The younger man said, 'Our mistress. She as is wife to Sir Hugh Cederwell. She wants to see the friar most urgent.

We've instructions to ask him to come to my lady as soon as he can.'

The miller shrugged. 'Well, 'e ain't here, as I told you. Said he was bound fer Woodspring Priory, so I'd seek in that direction if I was you.'

The two men grunted their thanks and remounted, declining the goodwife's offer of a cup of ale.

'We'd best get on while the daylight lasts. It may take us some time to catch up with him if we've to ride all the way to the Priory.'

They again forded the stream, the horses' hoofs sending up a spray of iridescent drops which hung for a moment on the bright, clear air. I went back into the millhouse to collect my things.

'Who's Lady Cederwell?' I asked.

'Like they told you,' said Mistress Miller, helping me to gather up the rest of my wares and restore them to my pack, 'she's the wife of Sir Hugh Cederwell of Cederwell Manor. That lies some five, six miles west of here and within sight of the River Severn, or so I understand. I've never been that far myself, but,' she added proudly, 'I know people who have.'

'Ay, more fools they,' grunted the miller as he disappeared once more through the door leading into the mill.

'I don't know about that,' his wife sighed regretfully. 'Mark you, I'm not saying as I'd want to go as far as Cederwell Manor, for it's nought but a small place from what I gather. But Lynom Hall, now, I wouldn't mind seeing that. For it's the biggest house in these parts and closer to us than the other. And the Widow Lynom's a fine, handsome woman by all accounts. Red hair and not a trace of grey they say, even though she's past her prime.'

'Maybe she uses alkanet plant to colour it,' suggested her daughter. 'After all, when the roots are boiled the water's used to redden cheese. Why shouldn't it do the same for hair?'

But the miller's wife was unwilling to allow that here, in Somerset, a lady of birth and quality could be capable of practising such deception. In London or Bristol — well! The shrug of her shoulders implied that in those dens of vice and iniquity anything was possible; and while the foibles of city dwellers made excellent hearing over a plate of fish stew, they were not seriously to be considered as general practice among the more godly denizens of the countryside.

I wrapped myself in my cloak, hoisted my pack on to my shoulders and grasped my stout cudgel — my 'Plymouth cloak' as Devonshire people call it — firmly in my right hand.

'If you can give me some general direction towards Lynom Hall,' I said, 'I should be grateful. Mistress Lynom sounds as if she might be a lady interested in buying my wares. Lady Cederwell, also.'

The miller's wife pursed her lips. 'The Widow Lynom would probably welcome your arrival, for she sounds to be an open-handed lady when it comes to her personal adornment. I've heard her described as vain. But as for Lady Cederwell, you mayn't be so lucky there. Common report says she's a very pious young woman, a devout daughter of the Church, more often to be found at her prie-dieu than staring at her reflection in a mirror.'

'Well,' I answered philosophically, 'the female members of her household may be in need of needles and thread or twine or laces. And as you saw, I have some very good pewter knives and spoons.'

'True.' The goodwife considered for a moment, then turned to her daughter. 'Joanna, I've no need of you here for a while. Put on your cloak and pattens and accompany the chapman back to the main track. Show him which way to take at the crossroads; the path to Lynom.'

'There's no call to send the child out on such a day,' I protested, but was overruled by both mother and daughter.

'I shall be glad of the air,' Joanna Miller said, slipping her feet into wooden clogs. She flung a serviceable woollen cloak about her slender figure and pulled up the hood.

It was by now bitterly cold, too cold in fact for snow but promising an extremely sharp frost by the following morning.

Joanna trod composedly by my side as we ascended the slope out of the valley, not needing my proffered arm and unhampered by her heavy-soled shoes. Away from the mill she seemed less of a girl and more of a woman; and when she told me that she was but fifteen years of age and the only child, I realised that the miller and his wife must have come late to the blessings of parenthood. I also realised that while they struggled against the temptation to be too doting a mother and father, Joanna possibly found it rewarding to play the little girl for their benefit.

We talked desultorily of this and that until we reached the summit of the hill and had walked a short distance along the pack-horse track to the crossroads. Here Joanna pointed out the path to Lynom Hall and prepared to leave me. Just before she did so, however, she gave a knowing little smile and said, 'You may meet Sir Hugh Cederwell there.' 'At Lynom Hall?' I queried, puzzled.

She nodded and smiled her cat-like smile. 'Gossip has it that the widow is his mistress, although my mother would be angry to hear me admit it.'

'Indeed,' was all that I could think of to say. I stood there looking at her, feeling as I so often did in the presence of women, bewildered and rather stupid. For it has been my experience throughout life that whereas a man is always himself whoever he may be with, a woman is capable of changing her character to suit her mood or the person she is confronting at that present.

'Indeed, indeed,' she mocked with a little laugh, sending me an enigmatic glance from beneath the close-drawn hood which framed her delicate features. Then she turned and vanished around a bend in the track beyond which was the narrow, barely discernible path which led down into the valley. I looked after her for a moment before swinging on my heel and starting along the road in front of me.

I walked for the next hour without meeting anyone or hearing any human voice other than my own, as I whistled in my usual tuneless fashion to keep up my spirits. It became increasingly colder as the afternoon wore on and the shadows lengthened, and with the absence of habitation I became anxious as to where I should spend the night. It was necessary to get under cover before darkness fell, and for the first time since leaving the shelter of my mother-in-law's roof I questioned the wisdom of this winter expedition. Had I for once confused my desire for freedom, my dislike of being confined within four walls, with that sense of being used by God for His Divine Purpose? Had there, I wondered, shivering and drawing my cloak tighter about me, ever really been any purpose other than my own desire to escape from the restrictions and rules imposed by living in close proximity to other people? Was I, as my mother had often accused me of being, selfish? Did I search for excuses to ignore the claims which those nearest to me had upon my time and person? I could find no answer.

Against an overcast sky the leafless branches of the trees raised knotted arms in a silent, defiant gesture, and overall was that peculiar soundlessness which I could remember from winter days in my youth, around Wells. To the north of the track the distant vista of hills hung like a dirty grey shroud and were devoid of any signs of life. All the animals had been driven indoors to share the warmth of smoking turf fires with their owners.

The track broadened out a little and another opened up on my left. I paused, staring along it as far as I could see, wondering where it led and whether I was meant to go that way or no. But Joanna Miller had made no mention of deviating from my present path, and as this second track plainly ran southwards through thick wood and scrubland, I decided to proceed straight ahead, but I wished that I could meet with some other foolhardy traveller, out and about his business on such an unpleasant afternoon.

Almost immediately my wish was granted as the rattle of wheels and the clop of horse's hoofs sounded behind me. I turned my head to see a cart approaching, a solid brown cob harnessed between its shafts, carrying a load of firewood.

The driver was bunched forward over the reins, his head well down and concealed beneath its hood, his hands mottled red and blue by the cold. I stepped out almost into the middle of the track and hailed him, hoping for a fide, but either he did not hear me or he was too intent on getting home to stop and help a stranger. Whichever it was, he chose that moment to flick the reins and increase his speed, forcing me to step back hurriedly. I trod on a loose stone at the side of the path and went down heavily, twisting my left foot beneath me as I did so.

For several minutes I was unable to move, conscious of nothing but the pain in my ankle. When at last this was bearable enough for me to drag myself upright with the aid of my cudgel, which by the grace of God had fallen close to my hand, I let rip with all the blasphemies at my command, cursing the retreating form of the carter. Then having somewhat relieved my feelings, I gingerly put my left foot to the ground and tested my weight on the ankle. A searing pain shot up my leg, causing me to swear yet again with even greater fluency than before. I glanced wildly around me, wondering how far it was to the nearest habitation.

And then I saw it, a boulder house built into the steep bank on the right of the track some yards ahead of me, a thin wisp of smoke spiralling through the hole in the heather thatched roof. I dragged myself the short distance and had to stoop almost double, such was my height, to get my head beneath the lintel-stone of the narrow doorway. Inside, the hovel was so dark that even the single rushlight was momentarily invisible to me and I failed to realise that the floor was several inches below the level of the road.

Consequently I missed my footing and pitched forward on my face. As the bare, beaten earth came up to meet me, the red-hot pain once more shot up my leg and I lay there, writhing and groaning in agony.