Authors: Jessa Hawke
“Cheer up, my Liege.”
“Peter, it’s cold. It stinks. And it never bloody stops raining. Don’t even get me started on the people... they’re as ugly as sin.”
“My Liege, I’m English.”
“And a good example of what I am on about.” William turned to look out at the dreary thatched houses. He shook his head while his nose caught the scent of manure. “Stinks, the whole place stinks of pig shit.”
“But my liege, at least it’s quiet. These people will not cause you any problems.”
“I’m not sure, living in such squalor might make them desperate... and desperate men do desperate things.”
Peter’s face lit up. “Well maybe you could engineer a town in your own image? Make it a more comfortable place to live. If the people prosper then your tax revenue will increase.”
“Certainly something to think about.”
“Excellent. I would suggest starting with a place of worship, one worthy of God’s name. Closer to God, the townsfolk would be less likely to sin or stray.”
“I was thinking less chapel, more fully equipped tournament field.” William gazed over the rampart. He shook his head while he watched a group of peasants arguing over the result of a pig chase. “People who think catching greased up pigs is a sport... Well, they obviously need to be cultured. I’m going to introduce sword fighting, archery and jousting.”
“My Liege, Pig chasing is a popular pastime.”
“The only reason I can think of for men chasing pigs, is that it’s less pig-like than the average local woman.”
~
The wind blew through the grand banquet hall where William and Peter sat at the long oak table. A pack of fox hounds slept on a bed of straw in front of the open fire. William twirled his dagger on its stabbing point while Peter scrutinized the court’s papers. Despite the fierce fire burning on the stone hearth, William felt a chill deep within his bones. He groaned as he stood from his chair. “Peter.”
“My Liege?”
“Why is it so God damn cold in here?”
“It’s England, my Liege.”
William walked towards the arrow slit window where an icy wind billowed like an arctic gust. “How come there’re no tapestries on these windows? Only a fool would leave them wide open like the legs of a whore.”
“William... I’m sure your father mentioned last year’s plague.”
“He did.”
“Well, it wiped out most of the skilled workers while the rest ran, never to return.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I’ve been searching the local guilds but found no weavers... None of note anyway. We need a mason and a carpenter too. I fear the castle will never be fully completed.”
William glanced around at large stone walls and huge oak rafters. “Well, I need some colour as well as warmth. This constant greyness is crushing me. If I’m not under a grey sky, I’m looking at four grey fucking walls.”
“My Liege, Spring is only four months away.”
“Four..? Four..?” William’s foot twitched as he thought about kicking a dog. “Four fucking months?”
“Well summer doesn’t arrive until the last week in March at the earliest.”
“Get me some tapestries. Immediately.”
Peter let his quill rest in the pot of ink “My Liege...” He watched William shift the dogs with his boots so he could warm his hands near the licking flames of the open fire. “The best tapestries come from the continent. They’re expensive to import.”
“The English must have something to keep them warm... Well apart from getting drunk then beating their spouses.”
“We’re not all raving alcoholics, my Liege.”
William turned to face Peter. “Get me my cloak and inform the stable boy to ready my horse.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Shopping.”
“The continent?”
“No.” William cracked his knuckles as if readying to punch Peter’s clueless face. “I’m starting to think my father employed the village idiot.”
“But I thought you would rather die than mix with the peasant folk?”
“I’m bored and depressed. Seeing people worse off than myself... well, I’m hoping it may raise my spirits.”
~
Dressed in a wolf skin cloak, William rode his stallion through the dreary village. The buildings were tightly packed and mostly made from wattle and daub. Despite confident that no villager would dare attack him, William’s hand was never far from the handle of his sword.
Crossing the stone bridge onto the far bank William notice the once busy streets had emptied. The inhabitants kept out his way, running down dark narrow side streets as if they were rats. Mothers herded their children back into their simple houses while shopkeepers hid behind their stalls. Only roaming goats, pigs and chickens populated the filthy streets.
William saw something he wasn’t expecting. Disbelieving, he wiped his hand across his face. But his eyes hadn’t deceived him. “My God she is beautiful.” He smiled at the woman who shied away, then shouted, “My lady!” But the woman ran through an open door into a ramshackle workshop.
Climbing from his horse, William winced as his leather shoes squelched in the churned mud. Guiding his horse, he slipped and slid across the road until he made it to this wooden building in which the woman had disappeared into. Peering through the open window he raised a pleased smile. Inside the dimly lit room a thick-set woman dressed in a shawl sat at a bench, weaving a pair of trousers. But his eyes looked beyond the woman, focusing on the long tapestry which hung from a vertical loom. “Excuse me.” The woman appeared frozen in shock. She then climbed from the bench and curtsied in silence. He asked, “Is this your workshop?” A nervous elderly woman pointed to the room towards the back.
“Beatrice is the head weaver, my Liege.”
“Then I want to see Beatrice.”
A pretty face peaked around the wooden door frame. Quietly as a harvest mouse, she spoke, “I’m Beatrice.”
William recognised it as the woman he had seen on the street. He then walked to the entrance and stepped into the workshop. The young woman cautiously entered into the room and quickly curtsied. He dryly smiled. “You’re too young to be the proprietor.”
“It was my parents’ business. But the plague snatched them. I’m in sole charge now.”
“Not your husband?”
Beatrice shook her head while focusing on her mud covered shoes. “The plague also took Herbert, my husband. We had been married only six weeks.”
“My sympathy, madam.”
“I’m not the only one who lost, my Liege. Everyone has been touched by the plague.”
“Indeed, I hear these lands were ravaged by the plague. My chamberlain told me it wiped out half the village.” William felt awkward as he didn’t know what else to say. “Well, your luck is about to change.”
“My Liege?”
William stepped up to vertical loom causing the women to disperse like timid street dogs. His eyes lapped up the elegant floral pattern which were warmly coloured with reds and ambers. Lightly brushing his fingers along fabric, he nodded with satisfaction. “Fine work, I may be interested. But who could possibly afford such work in these impoverished lands?”
“We mainly produce simple garments for the villages. But every so often the Abbey will order a tapestry or two.”
“How come you have kept your skills from me? I could easily view this treason?”
“Forgive me, but I have not. Your chamberlain turned me away.”
“Peter!” William thumped his clenched fist against the wooden wall “That useless shit wouldn’t know talent if I beat him to death with it.” Flexing his aching fingers, he shook his head while walking towards the door. “Girls... consider yourself employed.” He glanced over his shoulder to Beatrice. “Report to the guardhouse at sunrise... you have a castle to decorate.”
“Really?”
“I’m a Norman... I don’t have a sense of humour. Now, I’m off to beat seven shades of brown out of my useless chamberlain. Good day to you.”
Once William had left the workshop remained in silence for a few moments. Beatrice listened to the hooves of the Baron’s horse until they all but disappeared. She then screamed, “What the hell just happened?” Still screaming, she grabbed hold of her faithful weaver. “Matilda... was I dreaming? Tell me I wasn’t.”
“No, he was here. I witnessed him, dressed in his fine clothes and smelling of rose water.”
“What are we going to do? I mean... he asked us to decorate his castle, did he not?”
“I’ve never been spoken to by a Norman before.”
Beatrice sat on the bench seat, open-mouthed. “He spoke in English, and he’s ravishingly handsome too... Baron Bertrand was as ugly as a corpse. But this William, he’s something else.”
“Beatrice, don’t get carried away. His ancestors slaughtered ours and took all their land. He and his kind now tax us up to our eyeballs, keeping us locked in poverty. He is no better than any other Norman.”
“I’m not stupid, Matilda.” Beatrice stretched out her legs, scraping her clogs across the wooden floorboards. She placed her hands on her cloth covered knees and stared at Matilda. “But did he, or did he not just offer us business? Lots of business.”
“He did that indeed. But you know as well as I do... never trust a Norman. Not even a dead one.”
~
The smell of raw sewage made Peter cover his face with his arm while descending the steps into the torch-lit bowels of the stone keep. In the flickering light he saw William holding a shovel while standing next to a large bucket. “My Liege, why did you choose such a terrible place to meet?” He then felt like vomiting as William handed him the shovel covered in excrement.
“The cesspit needs emptying.”
“My Liege, the castle employs a gong farmer to empty the cesspit.”
“Well, it’s either I beat the shit out of you or clean up everybody else’s. What is it to be?”
“Why do you choose to use such angry words with me?”
“Beatrice Buxton, the town weaver. She came to sell her fine tapestries.” William held a bag of rose petals to his face as he opened the door to the cavernous pit. “But you turned her away. Why?”
“I love her. But she broke my heart and married another man.”
“Her husband is dead... and yet you’re still bitter?” William glared at Peter. “You had me freezing my bollocks off, just because yours are so bitter?”
“I asked her since his death. But she still refuses me.”
“But, Peter, her refusal of you has nothing to do about the woman being cruel. Nor is it to do with her still loving her husband.”
“Then what is it, my Liege?”
William motioned with his head, signalling for a forlorn Peter to enter the pit. “It’s about you being as ugly as sin. Now, Peter the gong farmer, you have a cesspit to empty.”
~
Towards the East the sun had barely melted over the horizon while to the West a distant winter storm brewed. Beatrice and Matilda found themselves caught in the middle while they waited outside the guardhouse. The studded oak door finally clunked as it opened. Immediately Matilda pinched her nose as a familiar face peeped around the door. “My God... Peter... you stink worse than usual.”
“Good day to you both, Matilda, and the Big tits Beatrice.”
Beatrice placed her hands on her hips. “Never mind Peter the Penis... you should change your name to Peter the arse. What is wrong with you? You smell like a filthy moat rat.”
“I’ve been knee deep in shit.”
“What trouble have you been in this time?”
“No literally... I’ve been knee deep in shit. Yesterday the Baron had me cleaning out the cesspit all afternoon... that’s six months of shit I had to carry to the dung cart.”
Matilda looked on suspiciously. “Isn’t that Gordon the Gong Farmer’s job? You’re doing him out of a living.”
“He needed some help to shift it. I suppose that’s the downside to a good sprout harvest.”
~
Inside the great hall Beatrice listened diligently as Peter explained the Baron’s wishes. Along with Matilda, she chalked notes onto a square of slate. Peter then stopped explaining about the Baron’s preferred style of tapestry. “You know, Beatrice. That’s what I always liked about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re like me. Educated.”
“That will probably have something to do with the fact we shared the same teacher, Mother Agnes.”
“You should choose your next man wisely. Just think how clever our children will be. He will have two parents to educate him... or God forbid we have a daughter.”
Peter’s words burned Matilda’s earls like hot wax. Her anger boiled over causing her to snap her chalk. “What’s wrong with having a daughter?”
“It’s a man’s world.”
Beatrice felt compelled to defend her friend, “Aye, it is. But I’m doing just fine.”
“Your tits are the tools of your success, Beatrice. If you were fat like Matilda,” Peter held his hands apologetically to Matilda. “No offense. But I doubt you would be working here.”
“I should break you in two and feed you to the pigs.”
“God is my witness. I’m only telling the truth.”