The Invention of Fire (34 page)

B
ETWEEN MICKLEGATE AND THE CHURCH
of St. Martin a large crowd had gathered in the butter market, where a pilloried forestaller was getting some minor ridicule from the legitimate sellers in the booths. Margery purchased a disc of butter to go with the loaf bought on Bread Street. Robert drank cool cream from a passed farthing-jug. As they reached the edge of the crowd he watched her rip a piece of bread from the loaf and spread the thick butter on top. She passed the piece to him, then took the jug, washed it down. Yorkshire cream was a different thing than its Kentish cousin. Sharper, thicker, with a sour bite that reminded her of a green apple.

The company had reached York the previous day, with several of the pilgrims coming newly alive at the prospect of a great city and its many temptations. It had been agreed that they would remain an additional night to restore themselves before the final push north to Durham.

York was the only true city Margery had ever visited aside from London, and while it was quite small by comparison, its streets afforded a welcome bustle after so many days of travel through the countryside and its villages. The citizens here were well used to outsiders, too, and she enjoyed her interactions with shopkeepers and hucksters, negotiating their differences of tongue and word with none of London’s often cruel contempt for strangers.

Along the shambles they walked past rows of capons and fat geese, carcasses and cuts of veal, mutton, and lamb, with Robert pointing out the flaws in the lesser meats, the rich marbling in the better. Cheese, fish, greens, and roots: he had a cook’s eye for the fresh and the well colored, and Margery found herself hungering for some stew or sauced roast prepared by his hand. Such were the new intimacies of their relations, the transactions of taste, touch, and smell they shared as they rode and walked, coupled and slept, whispered and looked together at the world around them, as if this swiftly cooling autumn were become a florid spring.

They were standing in the yard before the common hall when a city herald blew for their ears. As the noise lowered a crier ascended one of the horseless wagons before St. Martin. The crowd circled in and tightened, giving Margery the opportunity to press against Robert behind her, and him the chance to circle her lower waist with his hands. She felt the strength of them, wished he would lift her right there before these loud folk of Yorkshire.

The herald blew a last note, then gestured for his companion to begin. The crier looked down at a bill in his left hand. He cupped his right to his mouth, raised his head, and shouted over the crowd.

“Good gentles! Good commons, lords, and ladies alike! Gather round! Gather round, if you will, and hear these words I sing! By order of the high and honorable lord mayor of our city, John de Howden, I bear grim tidings, my good people of York! And what tidings are these? They are tidings of murder! And theft! And yet more murder! We are all enjoined, every man of us, to look abroad and close for one Robert Faulk, cook of Bladen Manor in Kent, and poacher of King Richard’s own royal forests. He travels northward with Margery Peveril, gentlewoman of the same shire—and, goodmen of York, the murderess of her very husband!”

Margery’s skin prickled as the venomous shouts of the townspeople swelled around them.

Whore!

Murderess!

The gallows for them both!

The gallows be too gentle!

She glanced right and left, to see if any of their company were among the crowd. None that she saw, though the crier would surely repeat the proclamation in the coming hours. She stood frozen before the wagon, with Robert clutching her tightly.

“Both are escaped from a king’s gaol in the shire of Kent, and do now flee in adulterous lust together through the realm. There is great bounty promised from His well-beloved Highness King Richard to any man who would aid in their apprehension and seizure, singly or together. And you are warned, fair people of Yorkshire, you are warned to keep your doors shut against the foul intrusion of Robert Faulk and Margery Peveril into your homes and halls! For to knowingly harbor or succor such felonious folk is a seditious crime against the very crown, punishable by the same death to be meted out to them. So sayeth this dire proclamation, and so sayeth your lord mayor, and so sayeth your lord king.”

The crier stepped off the wagon. As the press loosened she grasped Robert’s hand at her waist and pushed with him toward the edge of the square. Soon they found themselves on a narrow street winding toward the Ouse.

“We are as well as dead,” said Margery, feeling her deepest fright since that night in the Kentish wood.

“They’ve no evidence we’re not who we say we are,” said Robert calmly.

She stamped her foot. “You are a fool. We must flee from York this hour. We’ll not return to the inn. I have a stuffed purse at my waist, you have the coin I gave you, and we shall go—”

“Margery.” He grasped her wrist, spun her to face him. “Think of it. Leaving the city alone would only draw attention to ourselves. We must abide here until tomorrow, then leave with our fellowship, just as we would if that cursed crier hadn’t named us true.”

He was right, of course, though as she fell against him she came as close as she had in weeks to giving in to her despair. A swelling part of her wanted simply to end this reckless journey north, to return to Kent and accept whatever fate the sheriffs and justices and God Himself wished them to face. Instead she took his hand and they returned together to the square. The crier was gone, the crowd thinned. Their
meal at the inn that night was taken in the familiar company of the pilgrims, with nothing said about Margery Peveril and Robert Faulk, this fugitive pair from the south.

Would their fortune hold? In the days that followed no one in their company confronted them with the crier’s warnings. Yet Margery was surely not imagining the dark looks and furtive whispers spreading through the fellowship as it crawled through the northern reaches of Yorkshire. Had any in their company heard Mariota speak Robert Faulk’s name? Had the widow whispered her suspicions in those days before Margery threatened her? Even so there would be a hesitancy to speak against the couple, for Robert had slowly become the unspoken leader of this pilgrimage, giving small kindnesses and warm words to all. Everyone adored him, man and woman alike, his stories, his manner, his good humor and goodwill. Perhaps they were safe after all.

Perhaps. On the second day out from York she felt a burning in her back, a spreading unease. As Robert rode ahead she glanced behind her to see Constance and Catherine leaning toward each other like trees over a gulch, stealing looks ahead at her as they rode. When they saw her glance back they ceased their talk and straightened themselves, showing her the flattened lines of their lips. She said nothing to Robert about her suspicions, but for the rest of that day and the next, whenever Margery tried to slow her mount and ride at the rear, the sisters slowed with her, silently refusing to give way. They were like sheepdogs, or wardens guarding against a flight. Constance and Catherine, two sisters riding side by side, scowling, murmuring, trading whispers over the road.

W
OULD THEY COME FOR ME
at night or by day? Was I safer in my home or on the streets? How closely were they watching me, if at all?

The attack in Calais and the threat of a knife in the back stayed at the front of my mind as I settled in uneasily at the priory those first days following my return to Southwark. I found myself glancing out the windows, checking the bars on the doors, reacting to every stray noise with a swiveled head, a frightened glare. On the third morning I sent Will Cooper out through the priory gate to circle the outer grounds. When he returned with nothing to report I decided to risk a first outing since my return, giving Jack Norris strict instructions to remain within the house. I dressed down in some of Will’s plain clothes, which fit me well and would make me less conspicuous on the streets of London, as would the hood pulled over my brow.

No one seemed to be following me as I left Southwark over the bridge and made my way into Aldgate Ward, a ward of metal and arms where smiths and founders busily crafted everything from plate and chain to grilles and bells. While the Tower employed many of its own workers in metal, the crown was jealous of the city’s talents in the arms-related trades, going so far as to forbid their guildsmen to cross the seas in the retinues of magnates. It was also illegal by statute to export iron goods from England, let alone arms and armor such as the handgonnes lifted by Simon at Dunkirk.

Yet this serpentine gun, or so Simon had told me, was the invention of a smith working for one of London’s many houses. An intricate and clever work of the hands, displaying a fine combination of delicacy, dexterity, and strength that only a master smith could be capable of forging. While metalworkers of all trades were required to stamp their mark on their productions, neither the gun nor the serpent bore the signs of their craftsmen—though forged marks were so common that such a sign would have meant little in any case.

Or so I thought. My intention had been to show the serpentine device to as many smiths, farriers, and founders in the precinct as necessary until someone recognized the work of the gunmaker. It was a considerable surprise when the first guildsman I consulted identified the maker immediately. He held the snake, turned it and felt it with the hands of an expert, then took a long squint at the patterned back of the serpent. A grudging smile. “That’s Marsh’s work, sure as I stand here.”

“Who is Marsh?”

“Stephen Marsh, over at Stone’s foundry.”

“How can you know?”

“Recognize his work with my smith’s eyes shut tight. But no need for that. See just there?” He pointed to a spot along the snake’s back. I took out my spectacles and examined the area in question. There, within the waffled pattern along the snake’s spine, the minute letters
SM
appeared between four of the cross hatchings.

“What is Marsh’s reputation among those of your craft?”

He shrugged. “When it comes to London metaling, Stephen Marsh is the best. Everyone knows it.” A corner of his mouth turned up. He snickered. “ ’Specially Stephen Marsh.”

“Where is his place of work?”

“Bellyeter Lane, off Fenchurch Street in Staining parish. But you won’t find Stephen Marsh there.”

“Oh?”

“Poor carl’s been in sanctuary at All Hallows Staining. Gossip is”—he leaned in, licked his lips—“he killed him a young lass up by Ware. The sheriffs and beadles been asking around for him, but he churched himself before an arrest, won’t answer their questions. I
worry for the widow.” At my questioning look he said, “Hawisia Stone, the mistress at that house, and Stephen Marsh’s mistress as well. The master passed this winter last.” He shook his head. “Without Marsh’s hammer it’s passing hard to see Stone’s staying afloat.”

I considered the news about Marsh as I took the short walk down through the parish of All Hallows Staining. Another life taken, another thread pulled. How many more could there be to unravel?

The parson of Staining, young and new to the parish, stood on the western porch, haggling with a trio of carpenters over an internal repair. When they had trudged off he looked at me disdainfully. “Yes?” he said, taking in my poor raiment.

“You give sanctuary, Father?”

He sniffed. “Only to members of this parish. You are a stranger here. I have never seen your face, now, have I?”

“Not likely,” I said. He wore a gilded belt about his waist, his pointed and stylish shoes cut of the softest leather. A parson who favored finery. I cupped my purse in my hand, absently squeezed the gold and silver. His gaze went to my waist.

“What do you want?”

“Stephen Marsh. He is taking sanctuary here?”

The priest hesitated. “Stephen has committed a grievous and mortal sin. His crime is between himself and God, with no call for meddlers.”

“Truly?” I said.

His head cocked to the side as he listened to the soft clink of mingled coins.

“Only a word with him, Father.”

He parted his lips, eyes still on my purse. “He has left sanctuary.”

“Where did he go? Back to Stone’s?”

His eyebrows lifted expectantly as his hand came out. I dug for a coin.

“Not Stone’s,” the priest said once the gold was in his palm. “He’s gone to the Tower. They came for him days ago.”

“Who?”

“The king’s armorer himself. William Snell.”

IT TOOK LITTLE TIME
to locate Stone’s foundry midway down Bellyeter Lane, a quiet byway off Fenchurch Street. A colorful awning, a sign displaying the foundry’s lozenge-shaped stamp, a low bench set back from the side gutter. Though the display room was open to the street no one was there. I walked through to the yard. The space was well kept, with neat piles of wood and coals stacked along the north spans of the barn and smithy. Several square chimneys rose from two of the three roofs, though only one was smoking at that hour. Like the street in front the yard was relatively quiet, the only sounds coming from the direction of the foundry. As I crossed the yard I heard a woman’s voice from within.

“More water on that side, Walter. And Hob, not so flat on the curve or you’ll be through to the bricks. Now then, both of you. Step back and look at the shape you’ve made. Time for the striping, do you suppose?”

The woman I took to be Hawisia Stone, large with child, stood near a wide pile of brown clay, directing two apprentices in the shaping of a bell mold. Though dressed in widow’s black she was hardly still with grief. Unconfined, animated, alive with the work, strands of loose hair swishing this way and that as her head went back and forth and her mouth barked commands. Even so her face looked pale and drained of blood, her eyes hooded and smudged.

“Mistress Stone,” I said during one of the rare pauses in her discourse.

Her head swung in my direction. She reached up to wipe a patch of sweat from her brow. When her arm came down I could see that half her sleeve was covered in a dark patch of moisture. “Yes? What?” she said.

“May I have a word?”

“You’ve a commission for Stone’s?” she replied dubiously, with a glance at my clothing.

“I don’t, I am afraid.”

She glared at me. “I have but a moment for you then. We’ve bells to pour.” Her voice was weary and low yet sharp. She led me out to the yard. One of the foundry’s cats approached to sniff around my feet. She nudged the animal away with her shoe.

“What is it then?” She folded her arms over her womb.

“I am here about Stephen Marsh,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Well, now there’s a rare thing. What about him?”

“Have you spoken with him in the last several days?”

“And what if I have?” She took a step back, looked me up and down. “You’re not a beadle’s man, not of this ward at all rates. You’re with the new sheriffs, are you?”

“My name is John Gower,” I said, sorting my thoughts. Here was Hawisia Stone, mistress of a shop that had recently lost its master and risked losing its most talented guildsman. A woman of significant means, heavy with her affliction yet resisting confinement prior to the birth. Instead she was out in the foundry with the boys and men, working them and herself to keep the shop alive despite her weakened condition. She needed help.

“I work alone, Mistress Stone,” I said. “Yet I may well be able to help Stephen out of his predicament. Perhaps restore him to your shop. Not a promise, you understand, but a possibility, however faint.”

“You’ll need to restore him to the streets first,” she said with a huff. “He sits in sanctuary presently, over at Staining.”

“He is no longer there, mistress.”

Her brow went up again, the surprise genuine this time.

“Marsh has left sanctuary,” I told her. “He has been taken into the Tower.”

Her exhalation was long and slow, her eyes losing something of their fierce glint.

I brought out the serpentine device. “Mistress, is this familiar to you?”

She stared at it. “Where did you come across that?”

“It was given to me in Calais. You know what it is?”

“It’s a bit of a gun, isn’t it? Stephen made it, and several like it, here in the smithy.” She nodded toward a far corner of the yard. “Just there.”

“With your knowledge?”

She scoffed. “Smithed it at night, and under my very nose. Wouldn’t have had such a thing at Stone’s if the master were alive.”

“And Stephen used one of these snake guns to commit a crime. A murder.”

“So the beadle says.”

“You don’t believe it?”

Suddenly her attitude changed, and her face shone with sincerity. “Not a murder, I’ll be bound. He was out north of the walls, testing his guns. She came upon him and he killed her with the thing. An accident’s what it was, so he says.” Another test. She straightened her back. “I believe him. Spite of his night games and his slinking I do believe him, not that the Guildhall will.”

“Yet he took sanctuary at Staining.”

“Aye he did. My notion, and I put him there myself. Had no choice. He’d killed a girl, hid her body in his fright. Who’d believe his account of the thing after that, I ask you?”

“You saved him, then, didn’t you? From the law. From a probable hanging.”

“For now, at the least,” she said with a firm nod. “Stephen Marsh is no murderer, whatever the constables might claim. He’s not a warm soul, always distant from those around him, but there is a God’s measure of good in him. I sense it, have seen it. It was an accident, that girl’s death.”

“I believe this entire affair is an accident of sorts, Mistress Stone.” Her eyes narrowed. “Stephen has become involved in a series of events beyond his ken and well above his head. He is a pawn in an ugly war between factions, with his craft sacrificed to the cause of men who wish him no good.”

“And you wish him well, do you, sire?”

“I wish him nothing. Yet I may be able to help him. And thus help you.” A plan was forming quickly in my mind. For weeks I had been ruefully aware that I possessed no avenue into the Tower of London, no leverage of any sort with the royal armory at the foul center of this murderous business. Now, in this widow’s palpable trust in the goodness of her captive guildsman, this peculiar mix of devotion and dependence she felt toward Stephen Marsh, I saw a way.

“Help me?” she said with a skeptical look. “Why on Noah’s slaving back would you want to help a widow such as myself?”

I looked around the foundry, then back at its owner. “Mistress Stone,” I said slowly, “I believe I have a commission for you after all.”

“What’s it to be, then?” She had raised her chin, and as she did the sun glimpsed out from behind the low cloud that had obscured it for the duration of our exchange in the yard. In its full light Hawisia Stone’s beauty glistened like a cut gem. “A bell, a set of braziers?” she asked.

I smiled at her. “No, mistress. I have a different sort of job in mind.”