‘And what can I do for you, my lad?’ she asked.
She was as small as her husband was large, with delicate, bird-like features and soft brown eyes which regarded me straitly before shifting to my pack, which I had once again placed at my feet.
‘A bowl of pig’s trotters with gravy,’ I answered, but for the moment she ignored my order.
‘You’re a chapman,’ she observed. ‘Now there’s a lucky chance. I’ve just broken my last good needle and I’ve also run out of thread. Can you help?’
‘Willingly. I’ve both in my pack. Shall we do barter?’
She smiled. ‘Why not? I’ll get you your victuals first, however, for you look half starved. Then you can show me what you’re hawking. You might as well come in and eat in the house; then, when you’ve finished, we can complete our business.’
I was somewhat reluctant to obey, it being a fine, sunny morning, and I should have preferred to remain out of doors, chatting to my fellow diners, but I could tell that the goodwife wanted to keep me under her eye until I had completed my side of the bargain. I therefore followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table close to the oven, which was set in the wall behind me. Two big cauldrons bubbled over the fire on the central hearth, one of which contained the pig’s trotters. My hostess ladled some of these on to a wooden platter and set it in front of me, before sinking down on the bench at my side and wiping her forehead on the back of her hand.
‘Have you come far?’ she asked.
I spoke with my mouth full. ‘This morning, from the other side of the River Test.’ I swallowed and continued less thickly, ‘But I’ve walked here from Devon.’
‘You’re not from those parts, though,’ she murmured, cocking her head to one side like a knowing sparrow. ‘Nor hereabouts, either. North’ards a bit, I’d say. Somerset, perhaps.’
‘I was born in Wells, but my home is now in Bristol.’
She nodded in satisfaction. ‘I can usually tell. Although we had a travelling minstrel stop here some weeks back who came from Yorkshire. Now that speech I couldn’t recognize.’ She added, ‘Are you married? Do you have children?’
‘I was married,’ I said, ‘but my wife died in childbirth. I have a daughter, Elizabeth, nearly six months old. My mother-in-law takes care of her for me.’
The butcher’s wife looked sympathetic and laid a consoling hand on my wrist. I smiled as gratefully as I knew how, not wishing to betray the truth: that Lillis and I had been married only eight short months, not long enough, at least on my part, for pity and guilt to burgeon into love. Would my hostess have been as shocked as I often was myself to know that, at times, I could barely recall the details of my dead wife’s face?
Perhaps not, for she said encouragingly, ‘You must marry again as soon as you can. A handsome lad such as yourself should have no trouble. There’s girls falling over themselves, I shouldn’t wonder, to tumble into bed with you.’ She paused, laughing. ‘Now, what have I said to make a great lummox like you choke and blush?’ She rose from her seat to fetch me a second helping of trotters, saying over her shoulder, ‘A pity my own girl isn’t here to take you in hand for she’s a preference for sizeable men.’ She chuckled, ladling the steaming food from cauldron to plate. ‘Which she gets from me, I don’t need to tell you. For my Amice is as small-boned and short of height as I am myself, yet out of all my suitors I picked John Gentle, and him you’ve seen, for he must have sent you round here.’ Mistress Gentle resumed her seat beside me and smiled with satisfaction as I once again eagerly picked up my knife. ‘I like a man with a wholesome appetite. Now… what was I saying?’
‘You were – er – talking about your daughter. But,’ I added hopefully, ‘Mistress Amice, I gather, is away from home?’
My companion heaved a sigh. ‘She is that, and I miss her sorely. But,’ she went on, both voice and face suddenly full of pride, ‘I’ve no cause to grieve for her absence, as my goodman keeps reminding me, for my Amice is well settled in life, and with a very important household.’ Mistress Gentle’s tone deepened dramatically, taking on a hushed and reverent tone. ‘She’s a seamstress with – well, do you want to guess who with?’ I muttered that I was bad at guessing and desired her to enlighten me, which she was more than willing to do. ‘With none other than the Duchess of York herself! The King’s own mother! There! What have you to say to that?’
I am certain that I could have found no words sufficient to gratify her maternal pride, but fortunately my looks said everything for me. And I was indeed impressed.
‘How did Mistress Amice come by such a place?’ I asked, and I even stopped eating long enough to look towards the butcher’s wife and pause for her answer.
She smiled fondly. ‘My Amice was always a pretty behaved young girl, and clever with her needle – which is something that she doesn’t get from me, for I’ve never been more than a good, plain sewer. I can set a stitch in my man’s shirts when necessary, or make myself a new gown or apron, but as for anything fancy, I haven’t the knack. But my husband’s mother, Amice’s granddam, she had magic in her hands when it came to a needle and embroidered many a cope and chasuble for the churchmen hereabouts before she was called to her Maker. She taught my Amice all she knew and my Amice was a willing pupil. I believe she’s even cleverer at embroidering than her granddam was. Lady Wardroper thought so, at all events. It was she who recommended my girl to one of her friends who, in turn, put in a word for Amice with Duchess Cicely’s steward when Her Grace was looking for a new seamstress and embroiderer.’
I had by now returned to my meal and was sucking the last of the bones clean of its succulent flesh and licking the gravy from my fingers. But I was interested in the little tale, having once, four years earlier, met the formidable woman who was mother to our royal princes, although I had no intention of mentioning the fact: it would have involved me in too long a story.
Instead, ‘Who is Lady Wardroper?’ I inquired.
‘The wife of Sir Cedric Wardroper of Chilworth Manor. That’s a mile or so to the north and east of the city, close by the chandler’s ford. Amice embroidered an altar cloth for the Chilworth chapel and Lady Wardroper was so impressed by its beauty that she would have taken the child to work for herself, but she had no real need of her. Nevertheless, she was swift to noise abroad my Amice’s talents – with the happy result that I’ve just told you.’
‘Lady Wardroper sounds a kind woman.’ I licked my left thumb clean of the last gout of gravy and rubbed my sticky hands together.
‘A true gentlewoman,’ my hostess agreed warmly. ‘And by a strange chance her only child – as Amice is ours – her son, Matthew, set out for London this Monday past, to take up a position in the Duke of Gloucester’s household. I know it for a fact because I met one of the cookmaids from Chilworth Manor at Saint Lawrence’s market yesterday morning, and she told me. So Amice and Master Wardroper will be under the same roof for a week or more, because it seems Duke Richard is staying with his mother at this great house of hers by the Thames.’
‘Baynard’s Castle,’ I murmured. ‘I heard along the way that the Duke had come down from the north with his levies, but my informant thought him to be at Canterbury, at Barham Down.’
Mistress Gentle shrugged. ‘I know nothing of that. But Audrey was certain that it was to London young Master Matthew had gone, and to this place that you mentioned. And by another strange chance John and I had received a message from Amice only two hours previously. She’d sent it by a carter coming in this direction from Duchess Cicely’s castle at Berkhamsted, to say that the household was moving to London within the next few days. The carter couldn’t remember the name of the house where they were to lodge, but otherwise he’d learned everything off by heart. He was smitten with my girl, I fancy, judging by the trouble he’d taken to make sure he had her message aright. She’s a good child, and even though she can neither read nor write – well, who amongst us can, eh, chapman? – she does her best to let her father and me know where she is. For the gentry are forever trotting around the countryside, like they can’t be still for a second. Not that Duchess Cicely’s greatly given to such junketing, by all accounts, but I dare say she feels she should be in London in time of war.’