The Powder of Death Read online

  And a quick glance heavenward showed that the day promised fair!

  ‘Good day to you, Nolly!’ Jared called to the tousle-haired young man emerging from the carpenter’s house next to his.

  ‘And a right merry May morn to you, m’ friend,’ he laughed, finishing fastening his jacket, clearly as new as Jared’s own.

  They were soon joined by others heading in the same direction – across the Coventry to Banbury highway to the common, and then to the woods that lay to the north.

  ‘They’s about, then!’ Nolly chortled.

  On the common dozens of girls were kneeling, splashing their faces in the early morning May dew, a sure way to win a beautiful complexion for the whole year. Others were already in the adjacent woods, gathering wild flowers and greenery, their laughter and song lifting hearts now that a hard winter was past.

  Wolfscote Forest behind the woods was thick and ancient. Trackways meandered deep inside the lair of outlaws and vagabonds, and within living memory, home to the wolves that gave it the name. Somewhere in its dark heart was a deserted priory that many claimed was haunted by ghosts of the nuns who had been struck down by a deadly plague.

  The villagers grazed their pigs and collected firewood in accordance with their ancient rights but none ventured far into the forest – in the cleared areas of the woods was all they needed.

  ‘Good morn to you, Meggy m’ love!’ Nolly threw at a young girl in a green kirtle, her striking red hair falling around her shoulders. She was plucking bluebells with her sister; they giggled and ran on.

  Jared found a particularly fine wood anemone and fastened it to his hat, looking for others to complement it but Nolly had seen something through the trees.

  ‘Pageant wagon’s here.’

  ‘Well, let’s be at it, sluggard!’

  Age-old traditions had the girls gathering flowers and rushes for weaving crowns while the menfolk sought hawthorn boughs and greenery to load the wagon.

  A cow-horn sounded an imperious summons. Folk hurried to the pageant wagon from all parts of the woods, a sizeable ox-drawn conveyance more to be seen as the stage for wandering mystery players but now set with a wooden throne. It was gaily decorated with garlands of flowers, draped with greenery and hawthorn and was attended by the Master of the Procession, as usual the well-respected Old Turvey, a Hurnwych franklin of thirty acres.

  ‘I’ll thank ’ee to form up, one and all!’

  There was a scramble for precedence but the old man was having none of it. Girls first behind the wagon, then at a decent remove the men, to be joined by the approaching cavorting figures of a hobby horse ridden by a youth with an extravagant cap threaded through with May blossoms and attended by two tumblers in green. A shawm and tabor took position in the lead and the procession moved off – bringing in the May!

  It was exhilarating and joyful, a release after the bleak winter, and with the slow pace of the oxen Jared joined others in darting out to seize a girl and whirl her around in a frenzied dance.

  They crossed the common and entered the village, lined with onlookers, laughing and admiring. Leather mugs of ale were thrust at them and as more joined in the procession the noise grew to an outpouring of merriment.

  Jared however began to quail.

  There was only one small road through the village and it was going to stop at the house of Beavis – where the May Queen lived. Aldith.

  The noise died away as Old Turvey brought the procession to a standstill.

  ‘Oyez! Oyez! Does the May Queen of Hurnwych Green lie within? Your Grace, know your liege subjects await!’

  A vision appeared at the door before Jared. In a long white gown, her dark tresses flowing loose, Aldith glanced demurely about her. Supported by Turvey she mounted her throne to sit in regal majesty, bestowing a bashful wave at the throng, who immediately fell to their knees.

  Jareth’s heart was in his mouth. Had she noticed him in his new red jacket?

  The jubilant procession moved off, down to the last little hut and back again, this time turning on to the Banbury road and the bridge over the River Dene. On the other side was the manor with its hall and tithe barns to the right and the village green and church to the left.

  Already the green was alive with activity, booths for entertainments set out, trestle tables readying for the feasting and a fast gathering crowd eager for the coming festivities. Over at the maypole several figures stood waiting, the notables of the village.

  The Queen of May progressed around the green for a full circuit before the admiring crowd, stopping at last at the maypole.

  A wistful girl wearing an elaborate circlet of flowers was handed up, the old May Queen who had the honour of crowning the new, before official witnesses.

  The lord of the manor was not present; he possessed several other more substantial villages, and this year apparently was not inclined to spend his time in lowly Hurnwych. However, the bailiff and his underlings were there and to his annoyance Jared saw the condescending figure of Frauncey, looking above it all.

  Aldith stood and in a quiet but determined voice intoned, ‘This morn it is the month of May. Let all know it by the Maying of Hurnwych, and I proclaim the revels begun!’

  With gleeful cries the load of flowers and greenery was plucked from the wagon by the womenfolk to decorate every doorway and entrance and the new May Queen nobly led those chosen to adorn the rood screen of the church away.

  ‘Hoy, now, and we’re commanded to go a-rollicking,’ Nolly cackled. ‘And by all the saints I’ll not disobey!’

  They headed to an ale booth and claimed a tankard each.

  ‘That John Frauncey!’ Jared glowered. ‘May he choke on his airs this very day, the bastard!’ He drank deeply.

  ‘Him? All the world knows he’s an arse-licking churl. Pay no mind to the prat,’ Nolly said dismissively, speedily doing justice to the ale.

  On the other side there was a burst of delighted laughter. The Jack-in-the-Green had arrived, a figure dressed from head to toe in foliage with a pair of antlers atop, urged on by drum and pipe and a whirl of male dancers with tambourines and tiny bells sewn to their leggings.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Nolly urged. ‘I’ve a mind to kick up a storm.’

  ‘Not yet. I want to see the games.’

  And wait for Aldith to return. Just how did Osbert figure that he had a chance if he was bold enough?

  Nolly left to join the crowd about the increasingly uproarious Jack-in-the-Green.

  A dwarf jongleur in gaudy motley appeared from nowhere. Tumbling and leaping around Jared he sang a bawdy song, bringing others to laugh at him.

  Jared moved away, his mind on what he’d say if she appeared before him.

  Osbert beckoned him from an ale booth. ‘How now, Jared, and here’s one for you, lad.’

  He took the tankard but just sipped the drink.

  ‘You think she’ll hear me?’ he murmured.

  ‘Young Aldith? You won’t know until you tries. Here, let’s watch the milkmaids dance, always a sight!’

  ‘Not now. You go, Osbert.’

  Putting down his ale Jared looked up to see the May Queen returning, surrounded by dancing maidens.

  At the edge of the green she was met by lively acclaim, which she graciously acknowledged, then with her following turned to advance to the maypole – toward him!

  He swallowed. This was the moment he knew was now or never – she had but to doff her crown at the base of the maypole and be released to join the revelry. And then would be free to …

  Others had noticed her arrive and were gathering to hail their queen but he was determined to be out in front. He advanced, twitching his jacket and rehearsing what he would say, heart bumping. Aldith was laughing with one of her maids of May and happened to turn his way just as he pushed through the throng to the front.

  He felt himself blush and all his words fled.

  She smiled encouragingly but with all the village looking on Jared remained tongue-tied.
<
br />   ‘Why, Mistress Aldith!’ Frauncey executed a perfect genuflection. ‘May Queen and none of quality to pledge true allegiance? For shame!’

  He took her arm, adding silkily, ‘The ox-roast is announced, my dear, and I shall see to it the choice cuts are yours!’

  Left standing, Jared felt a wash of humiliation. It was replaced by despair then realisation. Whether it was Frauncey or some other, she was too fine a catch for a mere blacksmith and the sooner he accepted this the sooner he could get on with life.

  Suddenly everything went quiet. On the highway from Coventry a tight column of helmeted men-at-arms on horseback was approaching, a great banner aloft. Soon it became clear that this was a progress, a long tail of wagons and grand conveyances, signifying that a noble was on the road.

  Nolly came up beside Jared. ‘It’s Baron Everard, I’d swear it!’

  The first column drew abreast, the clopping of many hoofs and jingling of harness loud in the stillness. The men were haughty, grim-faced; their steel bright and polished. The brazen colour of tabards and heraldry spoke of a world of nobility and puissance.

  Villagers began dropping to one knee, their heads bowed in submission.

  Jared did likewise, but dared an upward glance.

  Following the men-at-arms a single figure rode a jet-black horse. Baron Everard D’Amory in a magnificent suit of robes in rich shades of purple and scarlet.

  The same stern face, hard lines and powerful authority that he’d seen when Perkyn had been spared radiated out with daunting force, a terrifying presence. Close behind him was his lady, her extravagant mantle woven with striking vermilion and blue patterns. She wore an expression of disdain, looking neither to the right nor left and making play with her pomander to ward off village smells.

  Then followed a richly dressed young man on horseback. He looked about with an expression of boredom. Was he the baron’s son?

  A long line of baggage carts followed and the rear was brought up by another troop of men-at-arms.

  The procession came to a stop and Jared heard voices at the head. The bailiff, on his knee, was addressing the baron. As they spoke in the Norman tongue the villagers could not know what passed but with a lordly gesture an attendant threw a spray of coins on to the green and the progress resumed.

  Jared followed it with his eyes as it wound past the manor and eventually out of sight.

  His gaze flicked up to the castle on the hill.

  CHAPTER 8

  The merrymaking resumed.

  ‘They’re setting up for the bowman’s ram,’ Nolly said. ‘And it’s our Watkyn Sharpeye standing agin who may come.’

  Jared brightened. An archery contest! An ordinary shot himself, to behold a natural marksman like Watkyn, a veteran of the crusades and pitted against all comers would be entertainment indeed.

  He made his way to the gathering crowd – and then saw Aldith and Frauncey together, admiring the ram for prize.

  Bitterly he turned on his heel.

  How long would it be before she could have no effect on him?

  Will Dunning, the miller’s eldest, thrust across his path and rubbed his manhood suggestively.

  Jared saw red and in a single mighty heave hoisted the youth over his shoulder and to roars of appreciation catapulted him into the pond.

  ‘Let the ale do the talking, you jug-bitten simkin, and count on this!’ he yelled at the floundering figure.

  Then someone leapt on his back, sending him staggering, but with hard muscles won at the forge and anvil he bent and hefted him forward to join Dunning.

  It was the signal for general mayhem. With shouts of glee more joined in, and set upon by at least four Jared was overcome and found himself in the pond as well.

  Soaked and muddy he staggered out.

  There was nothing for it but to trudge back to the house to strip off his fine clothes, now ruined.

  Hauling on his workaday attire he decided to return to the green and find Nolly. There was none to impress now, and he might as well join his friend for a jug or three.

  Nolly was over by a booth convulsed in mirth at a drunken juggler desperately trying to succeed with three live rats.

  Jared found himself an ale and tried to throw off his melancholy. Another tankard went down quickly.

  Feeling suddenly weary, he found a bench and sat, staring at his drink, his thoughts a jumble.

  ‘Why, Jared! What happened to your lovely red jacket?’

  As if from a dream he looked up to see Aldith standing over him with a beautiful smile.

  Scrambling to his feet he stuttered, ‘Oh, er, it got, um, wet. Where’s Frauncey?’

  ‘Oh, he’s to attend on the bailiff as he speaks with the bishop. Jared, why don’t we walk together for a while? It’s been so long since we talked.’

  Head swimming he strove to grapple with what was happening. One thought burst into his consciousness above all others. This was Aldith and he had her to himself for a short time and … and if he didn’t lay his heart before her right now he …

  They walked slowly along.

  ‘Aldith – I … I …’

  ‘I always enjoy May Day, don’t you? So wonderful and joyful, and to see everyone frolic so lifts the heart.’

  ‘I have to talk to you!’

  ‘You are, Jared.’

  ‘I mean …’

  They reached the edge of the green but Aldith was directing them across the bridge and on to the common.

  ‘You’re promised to Frauncey, I know that, but—’

  She stopped suddenly and swung him to face her. ‘I am not promised to that … that drab.’

  ‘But … but …’

  ‘I will never marry that fool even if it means I shall remain a maid all my life. If the one who I desire so sweetly hasn’t the courage to make conquest of me …’

  He gulped in sudden realisation. Hesitantly he put out his hand – she took it and purposefully stepped off once more, leading them across the common towards the woods.

  Heart bumping, her hand in his all fire and flowers, he was quite unable to take in what seemed to be developing. ‘Wh-where are we going?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s May Day, my fauntkin! Where do you think lovers go on this day?’

  Nearly overcome with a river of joy, he fell in with her step as they scampered off into the woods.

  CHAPTER 9

  Three summers later

  ‘How’s this? My mistress wife set fair to turn many a coin more than her goodman?’ Jared planted a wet kiss on Aldith’s forehead as she worked at the mash tun, bringing on yet another fine ale of the kind that was attracting customers even from the next village.

  ‘Should I return then to my spinning, Husband?’ she said archly, wiping her forehead, but there was laughter in her eyes.

  She had become an alewife to help with the household upkeep, as was the custom, but had found a gift for the craft. Some said it was the fennel she added, others the quality of the malt or the purity of the river water in Hurnwych, but whatever the reason, on the strength of it they had been able to open a small tavern at the opposite end of the house adjacent to the smithy.

  The green bushel over the doorway was sign that a fresh brewing was on offer. There were already thirsty customers in the tavern, and when he returned he was met by a chorus of orders that had the tap-boy scurrying.

  Jared nodded to one of their regular patrons. ‘And tell me, William, has your black sow brought you increase, yet?’

  ‘By St Frideswilde, she’s taking her time,’ grumbled the old man tetchily, but brightened at the arrival of his ale.

  Nothing could touch Jared’s contentment, his happiness at what God had gifted him. Aldith’s father had been stubborn but her threat to go to a nunnery and cheat him of grandsons had tipped the balance and they had wedded immediately. The forge was making money and there was every reason to take on a journeyman blacksmith, such was the load of work at hand. As well there was—

  ‘Isn’t that your
bantling and all?’ a customer chuckled, pointing.

  Young David toddled in uncertainly, looking to find his father.

  ‘Daw, m’ little lambkin, what are you about, lad?’

  He bent to pick up his son and his face creased into a cherubic smile.

  In the house it wasn’t hard to discover what had happened. David’s grandmother had nodded off next to the fire as the child played, forgetting that the little fellow could walk now.

  Kissing his child he plumped him down into Maud’s lap to wake her and wagged his finger in admonishment before returning to the tavern.

  A scraggy villein was waiting for him. ‘Master says, can you come, it’s a pressing matter.’

  ‘Who’s this, then?’

  ‘Hugh Comber, and he’s at a stand, plough’s broke and the horses idle. Just a bit of work on the trace ring and he’ll be much beholden.’

  A straightforward job, and for a well-to-do freeman with land to the south of the manor, who’d no doubt be generous if he was prompt.

  Taking affectionate leave of his wife, Jared left with the villein.

  The tavern fell to a contented hum, its customers delaying their return to work while a passing shower played out.

  Not long after there was the sound of horses, several of them. Travellers?

  Footsteps, then a handsome man in rich garb and sword stood scowling in the doorway. Apparently the tavern passed muster for he signalled to others behind and stalked in.

  ‘Get out!’ he ordered the bewildered drinkers.

  Some showed signs of reluctance. Enraged he knocked the nearest from his stool. ‘When Sir Gervaise D’Amory commands it, you’ll obey or I’ll see you kicking at the end of a rope!’

  The baron’s son! The little room cleared quickly.

  ‘An ale, My Lord?’ one of his followers ventured after they’d discarded their wet cloaks.

  They were all of an age, riding companions sprawling about indolently. Rakish and with a wicked curl to their mouths the young knights were spoiling for trouble.

  ‘Ale!’ D’Amory roared impatiently.

  The potboy had fled with the rest but the noise brought both Aldith and Maud, who pulled back in dismay at the sight.