Meg was a good, loyal wife, and she’d never have held Simon back, but she was most unenthusiastic about moving all the way down to the southern coast. She had taken a while to get to know anyone in the small, insular community of Lydford, because the folk there had viewed her as a foreigner, and worse, the wife of the stannary bailiff. Nobody would trust a woman who possessed the ear of the man who could have any of them thrown in gaol. It had taken all her skills of diplomacy to wheedle her way into the homes and some hearts at Lydford, and the idea of having to do so again here in Dartmouth was daunting.
His son was no trouble. Peterkin, or Perkin, depending upon Simon’s mood, loved the idea of living by the sea. Any boy would want it! What, turn up the chance of meeting men who’d been abroad, who’d seen strange monsters and endured all that the sea could throw at them? They were romantic, exciting men, these sailors. That was what Peterkin thought. Given the chance, he would have been leaping about on boats, chatting to sailors, learning all the crafts to do with the port and generally getting under everyone’s feet in the process. Sadly, though, his sister Edith hated the thought of coming here. She was a young woman now, and her fiancé, Peter, a young apprentice, lived not far from Lydford. She had no wish to be farther away from him than necessary. That was why she’d wailed and moaned and complained about the prospect of being sent into exile so far from her home. Peter couldn’t go with them — he was apprenticed to a successful merchant, Master Harold — so that was that.
Which was why Simon was so lonely. He had spoken to Meg and they had discussed the move unemotionally and come to the only sensible conclusion: that it would be better for them all if Simon were to come to Dartmouth alone for a short while, to see what he thought of the place, to make friends if he might, and prepare the way for his family to join him. Perhaps Edith would break with her lover and be glad of a change of scene, perhaps Simon would meet other families with whom Meg might strike up friendships — and perhaps Simon could conceive of a means of depriving his son of too ready access to the shipping that lay in the port. The last thing he desired was for Perkin to find an ally who would let him travel to Guyenne or beyond without Simon’s knowledge. Sailors could be a dangerous breed.
He rolled over in his bed. There was a growing rebelliousness in his gut, and he remembered the rest of the day with sudden clarity.
After his lunch, he’d returned to his work, but boredom had served to sharpen his mood. He was incapable of listening to the clerk without snapping in response; no matter what Andrew said, Simon couldn’t like him, and his temper was not improved by the fact that he knew he was being unreasonable. In the end he grunted an apology, claiming his bowels were giving him trouble, and he walked out. But he couldn’t face the empty house where he was living, so he returned to the alehouse.
It had been filled with sailors and lightermen, all the human detritus that would wash up in a port’s drinking rooms, and Simon was shouldered roughly as he entered, although a sharp whisper that passed about the place soon stopped that. When people realised that this was the man who could impose harsher tolls, or who could order that an entire cargo be pulled aside and held until he had inspected each and every bale of goods, they were happier to leave him in peace.
He hated this job, as he hated his loneliness. Already this year he had spent months away from his wife during his pilgrimage, and being apart from her again was terrible. He wanted to see Peterkin, to see Edith, and especially to have his wife with him once more to warm his bed. This separation was the worst thing in the world.
It was also leading to this lethargy. His lying abed was not merely the result of too much wine and ale last night, it was also the reluctance to return to that cell-like room, listening to the scritch, scratch of that blasted clerk Andrew’s reed.
The work was weighing down his spirits. He would give anything — even most of his treasure — to be back home again at Lydford with Meg and his children. Here in Dartmouth his mind was turning to mash and his heart was losing all sense of proportion. He found it difficult to break out of his torpor, and he hated himself for his idleness. It was so unlike him.
When he heard the cheerful whistle from the hall beneath him, he tried for a moment or two to cover his head with his arms, but then he had to admit defeat as the smell of smoke started to fill his little chamber. Reluctantly, he rose, pulled on his shirt, tunic, cote-hardie and a thick lined cloak, heavy woollen hosen and boots, and made his way to the ladder.
‘Morning, Master Simon.’
‘Hello, Rob,’ Simon sighed. Rob was a young servant whom he had hired on arriving here. A merry fellow with sharp eyes that spotted everything, Rob was dressed in a faded tunic with a leather jerkin. His head was encased in a hood that surrounded his throat, always a good idea in this chill weather.
‘Did you sleep well, Master?’
‘I slept,’ Simon grunted.
‘I heard your snores would have woken a sleeping dragon!’
‘Then it’s lucky there aren’t any dragons around here,’ Simon snarled. ‘Now get me some bread and stop wittering!’
‘You had a good evening in the tavern?’ Rob asked innocently. He was stirring at a thick broth of oats over the fire, crouched down and keeping his eyes on the pot, but Simon was suddenly sure his whole attention was on him.
‘Who told you I was there?’
‘All the people here know it. They say you’re in need of some company.’
Simon grinned briefly. It was not the first offer he had received since moving here: a couple of sailors had offered their sisters, another, perhaps more enterprising, his wife, if only Simon would turn his back while certain vessels arrived in the port or nearby. Simon had made it clear that he had no need of women. He was content with his wife.
‘Tell them to mind their own sodding business,’ he said harshly, and maintained a diplomatic silence as Rob ladled some of the porridge into a bowl for him.
Wymond was at his tanner’s yard first thing in the morning, same as usual, and he inhaled deeply as with a broad smile he surveyed his little empire.
There were pots and great chambers cut into the ground, filled to the brim with his leathers. He was proud of his rise from impoverished child to this position of importance. Even the members of the Freedom would deal with him as an equal. There was no one else who produced such good quality leather as he, because no one else had such a splendid area for the work.
Exe Island lay at the western edge of the city, and the river flowed all about it, which gave access to a plentiful supply of water. Others had set themselves up as tanners, but some had done so in the daftest places. Old Mart up in the High Street, for example. He had to spend a fortune every year to get water hauled up to his shop in carts. What was the point? He fancied himself important, living up there in the middle of the town, but all it really won him was the passionate hatred of all his richer neighbours, who couldn’t stand the smell of him, or the worse stinks that permeated his hall and seeped out to annoy all and sundry. It was mad to work as a tanner in the middle of a city like Exeter.
Whereas out here, away from people, you didn’t upset anyone and you had as much water as you could wish for. And all tanners needed lots of it.
He walked about his estate and chose which pits he would work on later. There were some hides which had been resting in his warming shed. They’d been sprinkled with urine before being folded up together. They were left here to help the hair roots rot so they could be scraped off more easily. He checked them, and rubbed a couple with the ball of his thumb. Only a few hairs came away: they could do with at least another day.
Shutting the door to the shed, he walked off to the next skins. In the bating tanks, where the leather went after scraping, the skins were immersed in a warm mixture of dogs’ dung. Some tanners swore that birdshit was the best softener, but Wymond was sure that it was the dogs’ dung that gave his leathers their natural pliability. All the leathers he’d seen which had used chicken muck tended to be a little more brittle; not quite so pleasant to handle. For his money, he’d stick to dogshit — it wasn’t as if there was any lack of it!