It was now time for me to get my tavern known
and noticed by my future patrons. I had done all the preparations with the food
sources I needed— with Moselles, of course, who would be on hand daily and
function as a sort of “balance” should I throw anything off keel, and I the
same for him, I had made my arrangements with Albertus to bring wines from
France and Spain across the Channel, that also he might have recourse to
Anselm, I had dealt with the fishmongers and costermen of Penzance to supply me
with fresh fish, oysters, and vegetables as well as a farmer or two who would
provide the side of beef and hams as I would need them (generally no more than
one per week of each, sometimes less, others more) and I had laid in with Mary
a generous supply of fresh ale, which we had stored in casks beside the kitchen
in the ale room. Stephen would be leaving ere we had opened shop, and we’d have
a good tub of honey coming our way then. The walls of our kitchen were lined
with jars of grain, dried frits, and oil, in readiness.
So all was prepared, and all was ready. I had
really only two concerns now.
The first was of course, my role as tavern
keeper and my ability to find others who were willing to play minstrel to the
crowds. By being needed at hand in the kitchen or the bar, of course I could
not always be expected to provide entertainments myself. I did have Clarence,
and I did have Ranulf, and they would be well paid, as I knew the tribulations
of the life. But I would need to bring others from out of our shire- and I
would need to attract them. So it was decided that at some point we would send
Wilmot up to Bristol, Exeter, and Falmouth to publicize The Fallen Lady and
tell good minstrels there was a place they might come when they were done with
wherever they were. I had no idea of the troubles this could bring me in the
future, but of course, at the time, this seemed the wisest way to attract the
kind of minstrels I felt we needed. Because I wanted music every evening if we
could.
The other big concern of course was how to
attract those people from out of the inns and the taverns in town to come to
eat and drink at the Lady. I knew that Albertus would tell people in France or
Spain in his ports of call- that might gain more sailors, perhaps, when they
next hit Penzance. I had Ranulf who still maintained a connection at the
Pelican, and he could tell those tin miners who came to spend their pennies to
head out our way “because the ale is cheaper, mates!”
And I also hoped that the people of our own
area would make the Lady a place of habit, when they ever felt the need for
companionship and good company. Of course, there’s no telling what type of
people would actually become our best patrons—yet. But we knew that men who
were tired of the sea, and tired of the mines, might like a place with a good
hearth and good food, and good wine and ale, and that the farmers and crofters
living hereabout were thirsty for Mary’s ale, if they knew nothing of our victuals,
but I did hope that amongst all the people who might come to the Lady, I might
also attract the traveler, despite our not offering nightly lodgings, perhaps
those who continued on across Penwith, or who were on their way south from
Bristol, or who were headed East toward an place- that those who were in our
neighborhood, whoever they were, would find the Lady a place worth telling
their friends thereof.
The other concerns I had were, of course,
maintaining my merchant connections, and steady supply of that which we would
cook, and having enough customers to sustain it all. What good would it have
been that we had taken the gold from Anselm to create a place such as this, if
the place was not to be something which gave all a good return on the
investment? It was elementary.
I thought, and it was a glad one, that I also
could count on Stephen to speak of our place while back in Chester. I knew that
having him speak on it would gain the attention of those whom he knew in
Bristol and Exeter, for example, would get us a little business. And that by
sending Wilmot to Bristol, and those other spots, also would do us well.
I had scheduled the opening for the afternoon
of May Day. I knew that most people would be well away, jiving themselves at
the Marazion and Penzance town May celebrations, but also that they would be on
their way back, and that would be a good time to catch many, as a spider rests
in the web waiting for the flies to show up, since they usually always do.
I had made up our sign for the outside- of course,
it had not been my handiwork, but that of Wilmot’s, but it did have a fair
presentation of the Lady Devonside as she was in the little portrait which hung
in our hallway, and it did have another sign which I planted, in the ground, near the front door- “We Have a Real Pelican!” I knew that would at
least get a small amount of attention, if not the affection of Squire Alstair
who owned the Pelican Inn in town. Since I had played for him I knew he might
think well on me, however, now we were both in the same business, and
accordingly, so must compete. If we could not get Scupper up to the front of
the tavern to show himself off, at least, if people asked, we could point him
outside, at the right time of day, on the back stairs.
I knew we would need to find a proper cook
within our first month- Mary had the business of brewing to bother herself
with, I myself needed to manage the tavern and keep on top of our suppliers and
accounts, and we could not use Wilmot for when he returned from his little trip
to Bristol and places east he would return to Clarence. Of course Clarence
would be around to help, but his work would be more like my own, overall. I
decided it would be best for my own time (meaning that in order to get an time
for myself amidst all this hustle) I should hire a boy who might work the
stables- to feed what horses there were, water them, groom them, and cart out
the manure to the fields. I also needed a cart of my own, with which to bring
back goods from town— like the ox-sides, the hogs, and the lambs from the
butcher, the bushels and sacks from the costermen, whatever it was. Yes, it was
surely true that my life grew more complicated by the hour! The more I
considered what it needed, the more there was to ensure it might have, and the
more moneys I would need to lay out. But this was all interesting for me. As
the day of opening approached, people would stop outside the tavern, which was
not open, but inquire anyway. It required that I put a new sign in the front
window “Opening, May Day!” and hope for the best.
Moselles was excited that morning, and as he
brought down baskets from the bakery to set, items in a rack upon the bar- he
showed me his creations. There were small pies and tarts created with berries
and peaches, there were cobblers and buns and rolls and butter biscuits. There
was much he had made which would cost a man no more than a farthing, and these,
we hoped might be washed down with our ale, but a farthing per glass. And the
dishes were delightfully priced as well, so that both common folk and travelers
would entertain themselves— a serving of roast hen, for instance, but a penny.
A feasting group of four might dine on said hen for but tuppence. And Moselles
could sell his buns and all for a farthing or less, even. He did, however
reserve the right to refuse to dicker over something a day old and something
fresh, with the choicer, of course, costing a bit more.
All in all though I was glad to have something
new to live for.
The first chore was to buy the cart, and I
found one in Newlyn I bought from a man for just four shillings. My first task
for it was to gather hay- a large pile, actually, as much as I might load on
the cart and take with me! This was stored next to the stable stall. As I said,
we made room for five guest horses and Magdalene, and Jubb the pig. I kept the
fresh hay covered until needed with several boards nailed into something of a
box, with a cover over it. I then bought a larger water trough (amongst the
other items I had called for from Bess the blacksmith) and like clockwork, I
was there to bring the payment on the Friday I had promised. It cost us forty
eight shillings to outfit the kitchen with all the utensils I had asked for,
and the brewery with the large vats (and I also brought back casks from the cooper
Burt. I made sure that each cask, bottle, pottle and flagon had been stamped
with the burgesses’ seal). I bought oil for our cooking, and sacks of oats,
barley, wheat and rye— enough now that we should also be able to malt as we
chose. And lest I not forget but I got candles from Cocklenburg, whose shop
stunk of sheep tallow and rank wool, and perhaps even whale oil. Six pounds of
candles cost me nine shillings, but I had enough for a few months, perhaps, if
all went well and we could snuff them on closing up. It would be a good thing I
did not need to visit him so often, for the smell drove me right out of the
place as soon as I could go.
Mary’s brewing in fact, we had begun in earnest
before the Lady was even open herself. She now had some eight regular locals
who would come to have their own ale-kegs filled weekly, and these were then
one pound two shillings to us guaranteed each week. The aletasters came by when
the first batch was done and pronounced it all fine. The best ale was simply
enough to cause them to pause, and state that it was, indeed, good and
wholesome. The women of our side of Penzance would stand around the back door,
gape at Scupper the pelican, who would strut back and forth knowingly, a
glutton for attention was he. The oysterman came by on the morning before the
opening day, and left me with a big keg full of fresh oysters and mussels. This
would go into our first big stew, and along with that, many of things which I
had brought from the costermen of Penzance— turnips and carrots and celery, the
most of it.
All these dishes for eating we worked on
ourselves for that first week, Mary and I. But we did not meet our cook until
we were well into the first week. On him I shall speak a bit more later- I must
tell you of our grand opening day, and how festive it was, and who was there,
and what all took place.
May Day was fair day in the town, of course,
and most of the local people had stayed on there until the afternoon, so there
were few by my side at the beginning but Mary, Pamela, Clarence, and Wilmot.
Anselm would be coming later on near the night-time, but we wanted to see what
would happen and who would come all of our own setting up shop. “Open for
Business” now read the sign, and our very first guest was a tinker man named
Pinwickle who was traveling about and just wanted to know what the deuce was
the fuss about. For there were now others gathering outside, talking with
themselves and each other, that there should now be a tavern near the sea, and
not so far into the town as they might not walk here.
Pinwickle carried all he needed on his sack
much as I had when I began to work and walk the roads with Luisa. Only instead
of a lute or instrument he carried a bellows, with which fanning up the flames
on the mends he would make on the trays and pans he serviced, he would bring
them into temperature range he might smelt and forge with. He carried an odd
number of such items inside a pack over his shoulder, as well. These he might
sell to someone in such a need, or he could use to melt down and do his
tinkering and patching of the customer, at whose lodgings he had stopped.
Pinwickle was about the age of Abu, I guessed,
and his curly hair was worn quite long, to his shoulders, and he wore a pointed
hat which had a cloth band round about it, in which he had stuffed a sprig of
mistletoe.
“A reminder of our Druidic past,” he remarked,
as I asked him about it.
“Do you get many kisses?” I asked, most
cheekily.
“Heavens but no! Why, who cares to kiss a ratty
old tinker! Nay, it is but for the comments, such as yours. If I might I could
tell you some stories...”
Such stories, however, were not on my mind.
What I wanted were more seats filling so that our stew, and our good roasted
hens, might find a catcher.
Ranulf came, with his pipes, and I promised
that we would, indeed play at some point on our great opening. But that was yet
hours ahead! In the meantime, Ranulf was welcome either to play on his own, or
to sit with a bottle of ale. He opted to play.
At first, he played to the empty room, and Pinwickle,
and to Pamela, hopping in and out with a number of Mary’s errands. But round
about the hour of three began to trickle in people coming back from Penzance
and the May Day Fair. A couple of young lovers, not a lot younger than Mary and
myself, came in, and danced to Ranulf’s pipe. He winked toward me, and the
young pair danced with a delightful abandon. When he ended that tune they
collapsed on benches at a table, and Pamela waited on them with a pitcher of
cold water, and they asked for a mug of ale.
The girl (I heard her remarking, rather low,
but it was my job to listen out for these things) said this was an excellent
ale, such as she had not tasted since her childhood, and I knew we had a hit.
The next group who came in were some older
folk, three women and two men, who seemed to be attached to Anselm, and who for
certes had been at the Christmas feast he had held. Now that it was Whitsuntide
their main work would be in shearing the sheep and in planting gardens.
They ordered a goose to split between
themselves. A roast goose, which we did have, that Mary had chased down but
hours before, running own the road, loose, from who knows whose manor or farm,
but it was fair caught, and now, he was someone’s dinner.
Ranulf played and the group of men and women
laughed and joked, yet, did not dance.
Then came in a group of riders, and I was hard
put by to take all of their horses and hay them myself, for as yet I still had
no hay lad. I had considered Garthson, it being such a simple task that I knew
him well suited to, but I also knew he had come as part of Stephen’s party, and
that they were going to be needed at the manor.
Stephen and Anselm both I expected soon, along
with Clarence. But that would come a bit later, as eveningtide drew nigh. Now
it was yet middle of afternoon, and I could not allow the good gentlemen to
wait, and so I had gone ahead and stabled and hayed and watered them myself.
They were good horses, and easily kept.
The gentlemen each wanted some honest meat, one
wanted hen, one wanted fish, one pork, the other lamb. I found all four of our
specialties in need all at once, and passed to Mary the orders. Within the hour
they were all served, and were gabbing themselves about how nice “this little
place” was, a “far cry from the crowded dusty Penzance mills” and “fair to look
upon the sea, and a pleasant view of the Mount.”
Ranulf played on. More young people, and more
older country folk, and by the hour of five, now I had a fair crew of forty at
table, all merrily chattering, or dancing to the piper, and coin was dropping
in my till as I had hoped, and more, indeed, than I had expected for a first
day.
The first of my friends to show of course was
Stephen, he and his manor haywains all got up fancy, a sprig of spring heather
in his belt, a feather in his cap. Stephen wanted ale, and so did the men.
“You are most certainly the more talented of
the two of us, Julian. I fain I would love to hear your lute again, this
evening. Sing us a song as which we have not heard, would you?”
“Stephen, to do that I must take my leave. I
shall return within a quarter hour.”
Leaving though the back door at the kitchen I
came in to the kitchen of our own section of the house, and made my way to my
music room. Luisa sat today not in her usual spot (on the all of the front
hall) but, leaned up against my chair in the music room, by the desk. I looked
about the room, and out the window, toward the sea and the Mount. It was a
wonderful thing for my soul. For here, now, just as I had done before we left
on our trip, I lost myself a few minutes in thinking thoughts of gratitude that
all I had sought to see happen for myself, indeed, all of it had come true! I
was respected by those of my own age, I was a man of my own.
“No man is the boss of me!” I recall in my
arrogance crying, at Porcull (who to me, at the moment I first saw him was just
some daft old man), at the King’s knight at the battle of Shrewsbury, who tried
to take me from my perch of safety by hammering me to smithers with his mace,
and what words I was prepared even yet to throw at anyone— anyone— who wanted
me to be kind and civil and more than I meant to offer in the way of his favor,
to be done with for all my goodness just to meet his own glory. I reflected on
Anselm, and how perhaps I could be considered a sort of servant to him, he who
was my landlord, whom I owed a yearly rent, and to whom my wife had pledged a
yearly tithed keg of best ale, and who had funded well my earnest venture.
But I also knew Anselm thought good of me and
that had he not, I should not have found such fortune. And so my new life was
beginning, a life of stability, of homeland, of marriage, of making new out of
nothingness.
Next of my expected guests to show were
Clarence and Wilmot. They had walked up from Mousehole in a very happy mood,
and Clarence had even brought a drum along. Wilmot carried a vielle, and this
he sawed upon rather recklessly (if not without a good sense of tune) and they
joined me for my next song, which was a part of the song I had learned from Abu
while we were at Harfleur, a tune old already, by Guillem of Occitan. I only
remembered one verse, though, but, that was enough to set Clarence off rattling
with a half-mad smile on his lips.
Wilmot seemed to have drawn the attention of
one of the country girls, who had arrived with two friends, and who left both
at the table to sit near his feet as he played his vielle. I could see
something in her eye. A bit later I noticed the same awakening in his eye, and then, sat back smiling as
the two of them fell into what seemed an enchanted trance with each other.
“Clarence,” I smiled to him “Look at those two.
What do you make of that?”
“I make of it that my apprentice has found some
type prenticed to his own musical magic! Tis merry, Stephen. Say, let’s go on
with out him, and leave them to their youthful follies.”
“Right,” I agreed, and Clarence and I began
playing our favorite of the Christmas feast tunes, the Tempus Adest Floridum. Ranulf played as well. The familiar tune brought many of the eating patrons to
their feet, raising their voices in song together.
Tempus
adest floridum, surgunt namque flores
vernales
mox; in omnibus immutantur mores.
Hoc,
quod frigus laeserat, reparant calores;
Cernimus
hoc fieri per multos colores.
Sprata
plena floribus, in quibus nos ludamus!
Virgines
cum clericis simul procedamus,
Per
amorem Veneris ludum faciamus,
eteris
virginibus ut hoc referamus!
O
dilecta domina, cur sic alienaris?
An
nescis, o carissima, quod sic adamaris?
Si tu
esses Helena, vellem esse Paris!
Tamen
potest fieri noster amor talis
It was indeed fair merry! And joyful. I was
even gladder when Mary took herself away from the kitchen, all the guests
having been served, and sat nearby me, and the look in her own eyes for me was
seemingly same to the look Wilmot’s girl threw to him. I answered it back with
great gusto, and leaned over and kissed her. This, indeed, brought even more
cheers from the guests, who were happily now calling out for more drink. Poor
Pamela! For it was all she could do running back and forth to the kitchen to
fill their cups!
But soon their noisiness dimmed down, and I
calmed them all with a piece which I had come up with while on Barcelona riding over to France. I do
not know why, but then, this seemed to be the cue exactly for Albertus! Who strode
in with Regulus and Chelmswadd, the sailors ever looking for sailor thrills.
Mary excused herself and went to him.
“Captain! I am honored of you to come to our
opening day! Fair sit ye down, and have a cup of cheer! What be your pleasure?
Ale, cider, perry?”
“My good Mrs. Plectrum. Would you be so kind as
to draw each of us a tankard of cider? We are ready to heave away in the
morning heading back to France, to fetch, of course, more wine for your
husband’s stock. We wanted to see this place ere we left. It will be fine to be
done with old Alstair and the Pelican!”
“We welcome you any time you come to port,
captain. I shall return.”
Mary headed off and was gone. In her place,
Pamela returned with their ciders, and Mary was gone a bit longer. While she was,
however, I had my next “surprise” visitor (whom of course I had been long
expecting)- Lord Anselm himself!
And he was not alone. Along with him came the
tin merchant who had given Clarence grief over our “King Arthur” at Christmas. They gave each other wide berth,
although Clarence kept close by to me with my lute. The guests seemed to take
on more of a hush as one by one they recognized Anselm, as if his fame had preceded
him, and all were in a kind of thrall— though not like Wilmot and his blushing
beauty were in a thrall to each other. Indeed, they paid absolutely no heed to
Anselm, though they sat but six feet away from him.
It was as if the crowd all expected Anselm to
give a speech. Which, of course, he did give, although it was, for him, more a
matter like a chore to be done with than it being something he really wanted to
do. But plainly, they were expecting one, and so, he was bound not to
disappoint them.
So quite beside himself with some hidden manner
of annoyance, Anselm rose up and stood at full height, clanking a tankard on
the table just to shush their whispering clamor and rumor.
“Welcome, welcome, good people, some of you my
vassals, and some of you obviously not.
“I have come to this, the opening eve of the
Fallen Lady! A fair establishment of eat and drink, the proprietor of which,
Julian Plectrum here, he with the lute you have been dancing to, is a fond
subject of mine, and should be, to all of you, a good friend. Stephen is late
from Chester, north in Cheshire, wherefrom he hails, and has come to live here
at Penwith Bay, to get himself a new mode of living. Do be good patrons, and
bother him not nor cheat him nor do him any mischief, for I know he means to
keep this tavern a place of decent reputation, and to make of it a place for our
good people which may be known as something different than you should find in
Penzance town. Here you will find good victuals, always fresh, and good strong
ale, which has not been watered! Made by the proprietress, fair lady Mary, who
is also Julian’s wife. And I came here to honor him, and to honor you, the good
people of Penwith, Newlyn, Penzance, and Mousehole! I bid you all now, give us
leave that we may have our own amusements, as we have much to discuss with our
proprietor here, and much we would wish to keep in our own counsel.”
And they applauded him, and he sat, and they
left him alone, for his words were always like gold to them, and they were in
turn, rather easily satisfied in like.
I then took my lute and gave them all a new
song.
“Caernarfon
and Carmarthen rose
to
hear of Glyndwr’s men
And
there is Henry riding tall
the
fair young prince well feared by all
Hie
thee to the castle’s walls!
straighten’d
and stout as the arrow falls!
Run
good people! run and hide!
But
your freedom will be found outside.
Here
our “Prince of Wales” returns
yet he
plays as Cardiff burns
The
mines of Rhymney do besides
as tin
men roam the countrysides
Cry
for Cymru, she quakes beneath
Plow
and sword and iron shod feet
Cry
for Cornwall, and her tin
That
miners might bake their own bread again”
With Clarence pounding in rhythm on the drum,
my song took on a spirit that—if not have people dancing, it did have some
humming along, or staring on me, in near disbelief.
“I don’t think that would be too wise you sang
it again, Julian,” claimed Anselm. “The king has many eyes, and some not so
ill-placed as to overlook a minstrel’s amusing song.”
I took that to mean that he was not
well-pleased, and the tin man from the Christmas feast leaned over and said
something to him. At that, Anselm nodded.
“Yes, Julian, your protest is heard. But there
are new issues facing us. Did you know that, as you were out in France, that
the French landed troops in Wales, and that they made a raid at Caernarfon? Did
you also not know that Glyndwyr has taken Conwy, Harlech, and Aberystwyth? In
fact, as Henry gears up for a new campaign in spring, I myself have been called
to arms by him. It might be news to you but he is still my own liege, to whom I
owe fief and place, and the mustering of a hundred men-at-arms to join his
army. Oh, look on me with pity. You know I feel there is some sympathy between
your Cheshire cause, Wales, and we of Penwith and Cornwall. But know that there
is really no other authority on which we base our own but for the whim and
pleasure of the king, whether or not we agree of how he came about that
crown. I would only ask this as a favor
for you. But I still need to call a hundred.”
“My lord Anselm, if it please you, I should
hope that in that event I might pay...”
“Pay for scutage? But yes, I shall accept it,
Julian. Know that, you are not the type of man whom I should choose to bear
arms for me, besides. Take that not as an insult. I just know you are not the
type of man to find glory nor your treasure nor destiny nor even any small
happiness in making war. War is a game for another type of man— one of whom
there are always plenty. And I yet have few like you. And the fee for scutage
is but three marks.”
Three marks! One pound, seventeen shillings! I
could easily do it, and it would hardly dint my chest any, the loss. But in a
way I was very glad. I could be spared more scenes like the one at Shrewsbury,
and pain of death before my time, at least, I hoped, if fate had no other plans
for me.
“Anyway, Julian, I came here to entertain
myself and be entertained, to see you on your ways and add my grace and
blessing to the place. You have done a fine job, with this additional large
room to the house. And my horses, I have seen, are well cared for.”
“That I will attempt to keep up. I must find a
cook, and do it this week, and a stable boy, that it not all fall on me.”
“There are boys with little else to do enough,
up at Trewidden. I can think of one or two whom might easily fill your bill for
a currier. As for the cook? I am afraid I am unsure. If I might have one I can
spare, perhaps they would agree to join you. But that then is up to them. You
do intend to pay a cook’s fair wage?”
“I do.”
“Then I will add that to my message. I will
call all the cooks of the hall and speak to them, and ask if any are so
displeased as they should wish to leave my service, with no questions asked, in
order to come cook for you.”
“Much gracious, sire.”
“Now do, go on about as though I am not here,
and give yourself to the song, again, lad. I shall dine with Aleuderius here
and eat of your good beef.”
“There is one other request, Lord Anselm.”
“Which is?”
“Our need for wine. It was suggested by Elric
Beres when I was buying our supplies, that you might spare some from your hall.
Until our sea captain returns from his new voyage on which he leaves in the
morning, we will have only ale and cider and perry. But no wine. It could be
months.”
“I will see about having a couple of kegs sent
down, then. Consider it a loss to you of but a fraction from the loan. I do
want to see you prosper. What good taverner neglects his guests the joy of
wine? It shall be done.”
I turned back to Luisa and decided to give all
one last long song. This would be my Lay
of Ulysses. It had long been a crowd pleaser.
While I sang and played, Albertus came to sit
with Anselm and the tin merchant, Aleuderus Burian. I knew not what they were
discussing, but perhaps it could be passage for the merchant himself, or his
goods, across to Harfleur or Calais or Brest. I did notice that money changed
hands. For now I had no suspicions, it did seem that they had normal business
to discuss, and there was little need to have concerns. It would only be later
in the year that I began to have grave doubts about Squire Burian.
But this was yet a happy occasion for me. Albertus
joined with Anselm and Aleuderis at table. I made sure that there was fare
brought to them from the kitchen, but soon, they were near ignoring me, and in
their own discussion. Something about the cost of shipping tin across to Harfleur
with the troubles coming on. Albertus made it clear to Aleuderis that there
would be no change in his charges, even with the risk, for he had still an
excellent relation to the harbormasters and customs men of Harfleur, and there
would be little cause for him to raise his prices, even if Aleuderis was
raising his own price for his smelted tin ingots. In the event of another war
it would probably be Henry who’d become his first customer anyway, and it might
be a while before he could ship at will across the channel.
As I said, Clarence stayed well away from the
tin merchant, but when I took up the lute again Clarence flailed at his drum
with some kind of mind to put a weevil in the miner’s ear. It was not long
before the miner departed, anyway, and Anselm and Albertus continued their
meal, now speaking of the wine situation.
“It would seem now I am a middleman to both of
you” he said, meaning me and the Baron, and so when I return next I should be
piled down with wine barrels!” His laughter was infectious though and of good
heart. Anselm would get his wine, and so would I, and in fact at the moment it
was me who was charged with a little impatience hoping that Albertus could
begin his journey, and soon! But of course, he was leaving in the morning, and
my turn of thought was hardly generous in that regard.
As it was getting on late in hours now, I
noticed many of the folk who had come in the “May Day crush” as I called it had
packed up and gone home. But there was someone I did not notice come in, who
was sitting alone at a back table, drinking her ale and looking forlorn. This
was Bess Farber the smithy, and she was wrapped in a large shawl, and had her
feet up on another empty bench. I made leave of the stage and came to her.
“I am glad you could come, my good blacksmith.
are you enjoying our tavern?”
“I am suffering, young man. Suffering the pains
of an old widow, and so when you say “enjoy” I must tell you I am fair enjoyed
of, enough, I only seek some company.”
“There are plenty of men about, here, Bess...”
“Ach!” she blanched. “Yes, men about, but all
of them half the age of me, and if there were one of my own type he would be
broken down and beetle browed. No, I find no company, as yet. Perhaps on some
other night. And you yourself, you are married, so what chance would I have of
you, even though you are a friendly sort, even. Ach, this is a fair tavern,
yes, but hardly the place for an old lady...”
I hardly knew what to say, if she were right,
or wrong, and that there were no men in the place willing to sit with her and
spend a penny on drink and meat with her, then that would be her lot. I wished
her well and she bade the same for me. When it came time for us to close and
send all our guests out into the night, Bess was still there, and her wan
expression stuck an impression in my mind I was hard to be rid of, even if we
had had an excellent evening for a first day.
Baron Anselm made his way out of the place
about an hour before we closed, and Albertus left almost the last man, but for
Ranulf and Clarence, who while leaving together were headed in separate
directions. I bade each of them farewell and that I hoped they should all
return soon. And all in their turn said, yes, they’d certainly be doing it.
Inside, I helped Mary and Pamela to send the
other guests gently home, after giving them all one last song, the Lay of the False Fox.
This has many verses and I only repeat them
here that you might yourselves one day take them up. The refrain follows each
couplet.
“The false fox came to our croft
and so
our geese full fast he sought
[refrain]:
with
how, fox, how, and hey, fox, hey
come
no more to bear our geese away!
...the
false fox came unto our stye
and
took our geese there by and by...
...the
false fox came into our yard
and
there he made the geese afeared
....the
false fox came unto our gate
and
took our geese there where they sat
...the
false fox came to our hall door
and
shrove our geese there on the floor
...the
false fox came into our hall
absolved
our geese both great and small
...the
false fox came unto our coop
and
there he made our geese to stoop
...He
took a goose fast by the neck
and
then the goose began to queck
...the
goodwife came out in her smock
and at
the fox she threw her rock
...the
goodman came out with his flail
and
smote the fox upon the tail
...He
threw a goose upon his back
and
forth he went then with his pack
...the
goodman swore if that he might
he
would him slay ere it were night
...the
false fox went into his den
and
there he was full merry then
...he
came again the very next week
and
took away both hen and chick
...the
goodman said unto his wife
“the
false fox liveth a merry life”
...the
false fox came upon a day
and
with our geese he made affray
...he
took a goose fast by the neck
and
made that goose say “whetumqueck!”
...I
pray thee fox she did entreat
Take
of my feathers but not of my feet!
[refrain]:
with
how, fox, how, and hey, fox, hey
come
no more to bear our geese away!”
I hoped that they all left happy, and they were
all quite merry, if sad that the night had come to a close. Each of them I
thanked on their way out, and told them they were welcome back any time they
chose. So long as they had the money for the fare, they would be welcome.
Bess Farber said she hoped I would do well by
this venture “and that you keep this a place of good fellowship!” Most likely,
hoping that the Fallen Lady might not become a haven of her namesakes. I would
have little control over that. But as for a start, it seemed all quite good.
We finished our night by boiling a tub of
water, and tossing in all the mugs and tankards, and boiling them clean, and
setting them out to dry. Moselles had already begun working upstairs in his
bakery, we could hear him sliding loaves in and out of the oven, and we were
all well set to go to bed. Pamela slept in our living room, again, for the
moment too exhausted to return to town, though I told her she had leave to go
earlier on our second day, and the rest of the week. When Mary and I finally
closed up the tavern and locked its door, and made our way home to bed, we had
both big smiles on our faces.
“Seems to me, Julian dear, this was as
successful as we might have hoped. How much have we earned?”
I pulled the fat purse from my belt and poured
out the contents on our desk. There was enough to make almost a half
pound—eight shillings, in all!
“That’s good. We cannot expect that much each
and every day, but no doubt, holidays could compare. Let us see how our week
goes.” I was now just so tired and wishing only to lie down, for much of the
night I had been on my feet, and Mary was in no different shape. So we slept,
without any affection other than our surety of love and faith in each other and
in The Provider, and when morning broke with the sound of the rooster in the
next farm over I wearily rose, but soon excited myself. For now I had a new
occupation!
The first thing I did was to put clean hay out
and draw fresh water for the horses, then I fetched the new bread down from
Moselles and Thangustella, who said they would both be stopping in today themselves
for their supper. That was fine. At about ten in the morning, a man and a young
lad who said they had been sent down from Anselm appeared in the front yard.
The man was a dark, swarthy Cornish gent who
said he was leaving Anselm’s cookery.
“I am ready for a new turn of times for myself,
squire. Anselm is a good lord to work for, but I am more in need of better
compensation, and he has given me leave.”
Turning to the young lad, whom I assumed had
been sent as the stable boy I was asking for, he was bashful and would only
tell me his name, Will, and that he was from Penwith, and was but twelve, but
he knew horses, and they did not scare him at all.
“Are you willing to accept three farthings a
day?” I asked, for indeed, this was all I had intended to spare.
“Indeed, sire. It would beat the two farthings—
ha’penny— I now receive.”
“Do you have lodging with Anselm?”
“That I do, sire.”
“The stables are over here...” I showed him,
walking him over.
“There is room for five guests, plus my own
horse, Magdalene, whom will stay part of the day in her stall, but each day
should be taken out to ride, if not by me, then by you. The well stands over
there (I pointed to the northeast corner of our front yard) and from that you
fill their trough each day. Fresh hay can be found in the storage area of the
stable, and you should ask each guest to pay tuppence for his horse to eat of
it.Bring the pay to me when they have made it, for that will alert me to the
arrival of a new guest. There is also a sack of oats we have bought to help
when there is no hay— that is inside the back door to the kitchen. If you have
trouble with gentlemen who are rough with you, or refuse to pay, you are to
give me notice, and I shall deal with them. Now, Will, it would be a good thing
for you to do, to meet my own horse, and make yourself a familiar. Let’s see to
her. Sire Deprez, I will be back in a few minutes, but you are not forgotten.”
Deprez waited for me and Will and I went to
Magdalene’s stall. She whinnied and nicked her ears back at his approach. He
reached up to pet her on the forehead, and she was calmed. He too noticed the
brand of Sir Boynton on her flank.
“It is alright, lad. I found her loose on a
battlefield and she is all mine. She has a special blanket we use for her when
we take her on long trips— the blanket is kept just inside our home’s back
door, and you will find the saddle for her near the grange. Now, take her by
the bridle, and walk her out, and get her used to your handling her.”
Will did so, and I watched with concern, but
Magdalene waked right off with him, and I began to smile. He walked her back
inside, and shut the stall.
“It looks like you will do well. You are at
leave, then. We have a pitch for bowls here, perhaps you might amuse yourself
with that?” I half asked. But Will sat right down on one of the benches at the
wall, pulled out a stick, and began to whittle with his knife.
Deprez had been patiently waiting, so I led him
into the kitchen. Pamela was already up, Mary not, but Pamela was seeing to the
day’s ale service and pouring out measures into demijohns.
“This is Pamela, Pamela, this is Deprez. He
will be our new cook, and seeing as he should take this day as his first day,
please show him where everything is. We will open at noon.”
I gave them both leave, and went back into the
house, where Mary slept in a tired state.
It was an hour before she rose and in that
while, I once again counted the fare from the night before, and made sure I had
correctly entered all the dishes we had cooked, the portions we had served, and
estimated what I might need to replace that. This would be a daily process,
fulfilled at the end of a week, and at the end of this one I still needed a
trip to Penzance for supplies, of course. Later at my return I would ask more
of Deprez, about his background, and more of his disaffinity with Anselm. But I
was happy I had found, at least, a willing capable individual.
When I would have time of course I set aside a
couple of hours in the early midday to sit at my desk and either write music,
play at it, or work on my accounts. As it happened in those early weeks of the
tavern opening we were actually gaining more than we put out. On those days
(like the day after opening) where I was required to go to town (my biggest
reason, every other day, was to acquire fresh fish) I would ride Magdalene, and
on the days I did not, Will would ride her on the shingle strand, until she
became used to it as a routine, and when she saw Will coming with her bridle,
she knew it meant a run along the beach. When she saw me, she knew it meant a
journey over land. I feel she got well used to this, for I did not need to spur
her, she knew the way now, and I could sometimes just sit upon her strumming
the lute, if I cared to take it.
Will was nothing like Wilmot. Wilmot, for one
thing, had become so taken with the girl
he had met (her name, we soon learned, was Clare) that he would find
excuses to take leave of Clarence’s shop quite often, that he might spend time
at courting her. Clarence, himself, thought little of this.
“I would rather he be doing this than some of
the other mischief he might get up to. At least, when he is in the shop and we
are building, he is asking questions. I have given him two projects to create
all his own— a drum, and a viol. If he completes the viol well enough, I will
ask him to create a lute- for I feel learning the construction of the shell is
a bit more difficult. But once he has learned these two, the more complicated
instruments will come easily. Soon, too, I shall set him on creating shwms and
other reeds, and flutes. But he does not seem so fond of lathes as he does with
frames and glue.”
I told Clarence that he (meaning Wilmot) should
be going on his trip to Bristol, and gave him the names of the Bristol
inkeepers he was to see. Then also he should go to Exeter, and there were names
of others, there. Clarence said he would povide the funds that Wilmot would
need fo his lodging. And a few days later, in fact, I learned that he had,
indeed, taken leave and headed north.
Aleuderis Burian himself was on my mind. Ever
since that first bad occasion between he and Clarence I had seen in him some
manner of worry. To Baron Anselm, he was one of his best rentiers- providing
hundreds of pounds yearly to Anselm and to the Royal Treasury. Who knows what
kinds of loyalties he held, though, in actuality, to the King. When Anselm said
there were “eyes of the King about” I had not thought that he meant some miner.
But by Saint Werburgh, I thought, if the King had an interest in controlling
Wales yet, he must, of course, have some manner of controlling Penwith and
Cornwall. And as it would turn out, Aleuderis Burian was indeed that particular
character, serving as both the eyes (and ears) of the King as well as a check
on any possible shirk on Anselm’s part.
It seemed to me that Anselm was indeed in the
same position as Robert Carpenter. That in order to continue in his prosperity,
some deal with the devil had to have been made as his due. One of these pehaps,
was to be as accomodating toward Aleuderis as possible. By pleasing him he
would please the King. And the king was, as ever... only interested in rule,
whether or not by Grace or of Fate pleasing God.
I found myself back at Trewidden in soon enough
time, however, as a week had passed and no cask of wine came down my way as I
had hoped. Anselm however, was quite apologetic, saying he forgot completely in
the excitement and that all he had taken home in his memory was my need for the
cook and stable hand.
“I am afraid your wife’s good ale took away the
better part of my remembering,” he said. “And please thank her, I will
appreciate her tithing toward our good faith that next year, You and your
partners are welcome back.”
I mentioned to him that I had great fear for
the coming war.
“But good Julian, it will not be taking place
here at Cornwall, but in Wales.”
That was little to comfort me. I proceeded to
tell him all about the past year— how Robert, my father in law, had been hard
pressed to accept a huge bribe, in favor of his business, to create barrels for
Henry. How Henry’s men had come to Richard’s manor and killed him while robbing
the family of their wool, and barn animals. How Henry’s entire rule had been
ruin for Cheshire, as black and dark as the years William the Bastard had
sought to dominate her and bring her to heel.
“Let us keep all these words between us Julian.
It would not be meet for me to criticize the king. Not meet at all. But know
that I hear your complaint, and I will do all I can, to keep worse from taking
part than already has befallen your lands. While you live under my protection,
you are that, protected. Lest thy mouth betray your heart otherwise from
hereon.As I said, agents of the king are everywhere, and you know not whom they
are, though I must warn you I know of two— Burian and Lord De Courtenay.Of all
the men of Cornwall you must beware, hold those two foremost. And make no
impropieties in your song! For they will indeed, carry word elsewhere, and then
I should myself need answers to how these ideas were first spread. Do you hear
and understand?”
I nodded that I did, and it hurt my heart that
I must now bear the cross of my home shire and all she had taken from the King
and the Crown Prince, ever to suffer that in silence.
“I have been called to bring up my men at arms,
a hundred, and to bring also footmen, and archers. There are some two hundred
and fifty that have been mustered. Soon they will be gathered here, and soon
they will take march, northward, and thence to Wales. I surely hope that in my
absence nothing befalls you or the rest of your good crew, Julian. Best heed my
advice, and keep your head low, and your mouth sealed from speech against
Henry.”
Anselm was grim, but his words of caution also
led me to feel despite my misgivings that he was inclined toward our favor yet,
even if making it clear could have cost him more than just a seat with the
king’s counsel.
On the morning of May 10, I watched the
departure of Anselm and his men from Trewidden. I had come to see again about
the wine, which, this time, I was received of. They rode out under the banner
of Cornwall, a black flag bearing a white cross, and a shield with three ravens
about it. The sunlight glinted off the pikes and spears of the footmen, and the
armor of the men on horse. It was all to remind me of that morning at
Shrewsbury when my brother Simon found his fate to be hacked at the hip, and I
was threatened by the heaving knight and his mace. All bad memories, but these
men had not seen the battle yet. They were on their way. They crossed out over
the pathway and across the Coombe, and I watched as their little sparkling line
grew yet smaller, making their way across the hills toward Bristol. Barring
calamity or misfortune, it would yet be some months before I saw Anselm again.
I spurred Magdalene home off the hill, and returned to the Fallen Lady.
HERE ENDS BOOK TWO OF JULIAN PLECTRUM
