Blessop's Wife Read online

  Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Contents

  Historical Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  History our Humbug? Authors Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Free Download

  Copyright © 2015 by Gaskell Publishing

  All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be

  Reproduced without prior permission of the author

  except in the case of brief quotations and reviews

  ISBN 978-1-925911-00-8

  Cover design by

  It’s A Wrap

  For Emma

  Historical Foreword

  My first love was medieval mystery, crime and romantic adventure. This all started with a fascination regarding the events and living conditions of 15th century. With great enthusiasm, I began researching this period when I was just a young child.

  When I started writing some years ago, I set the books during that time, I quite quickly made the choice to translate my books into modern English. “Thou art a scoundrel,” just didn’t appeal, and no one would have wanted to read it. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to write it. However, this leaves the author with a difficulty. Do I use entirely modern words, including slang, or do I create an atmosphere of the past by introducing accurate 15th century words and situations.

  I made the choice which I continue to follow in all my historical books. I have been extremely strict concerning historical accuracy in all cases where I describe the background or activities. I do not, on any page, compromise the truth regarding history.

  Wording, however, is another matter. For instance, all men (without titles) were addressed as “Master ----” But this sounds odd to our ears now. Only young boys are called master now. So I have adopted modern usage. ‘Mr. Brown,” has taken over from ‘Master Brown”. It’s just easier to read. I have used some old words (Medick instead of doctor for instance) but on the whole my books remain utterly historically accurate, but with wording mostly translated into modern terminology, which can be understood today, and hopefully allow for a more enjoyable read.

  I was once criticised for saying that something had been bleached. (I didn’t imply that they went to the local supermarket and bought a plastic bottle of the stuff, paying on credit card). But yes, in that age bleaching was a common practise. They used various methods including sunshine and urine. But it was bleaching all the same.

  Indeed, nowadays most writers of historical fiction follow this same methodology.

  I would love to know your opinions on this, so do please get in touch.

  Chapter One

  He reached out from the shadows and grabbed her. His torn fingernails splayed across her nose and cheeks as his thumb pinched up beneath her chin, dragging her towards him. Her eyes watered, blurring his snarl. His hand was scabby and smelled of shit where he’d scratched his arse, and of sour lard where he’d wiped his platter, of bile where he’d spat, and of snot where he’d snuffled onto his cuff.

  She allowed his grip without struggle, obedient to her husband’s demands. Then he shoved, sending her back against the wall. She huddled and waited, watching him, silent as he undid his belt. He gripped the long leather tongue, flexing it across his knee. Quickly he spun it out. The buckled end slashed across her mouth. Then she ran.

  It was raining, a fine mist of drizzle that wove soft through the twilight. The last words, drunken slurred, faded as the door slammed back in his face, ‘You whore. Come—’

  Knowing he would follow, she gathered up her skirts and ran towards the river, keeping to the side lanes and across the shadowed churchyards. She made for the bridge, which he would not expect for she was frightened of the high tide; had good reason, and he knew it. Borin would try every other direction before he guessed right, and by then he would have snorted, cursed and trudged back into the warm.

  Beneath the overhang down by the river’s edge, the old stone dripped condensation and the bridge’s first soaring pillar was wet against her back, drenching the shoulders of her gown. The usual bustle and traffic was quiet, London’s gates long locked and the houses along the bridge’s length were quiet. A cold night, a wet night; London’s citizens slept. The rain was swollen with ice and the long grey angle of uninterrupted sleet now closed in the sky. Although the Thames ran turgid, a muffled silence rested patiently behind the insistent sounds of the weather. She hoped her own frantic breathing and the pound of her heartbeat would be heard only by herself. Crouching down, she became part of the gloom.

  For a long time the rain fell and the river waters rose, the sky darkened and the night crept into the spaces the evening had left behind.

  She was almost asleep when a voice said, ‘You are in my way, little one.’

  Tyballis felt a wave of nausea followed by fear. But it was not Borin’s voice. She peered up and tried to answer. Her knees, squeezed into the little crannies where she had pushed them hours before, were now stiff and would not unfold. She dug her fingers into the cracks between the stones and hauled herself upwards. Her voice, when she discovered it, was only a whisper. ‘Your way, sir?’ She looked back at the heaving riverbank to her left. ‘My apologies. Are you a boatman, sir?’

  Seemingly part of the starless night, he was huge and shapeless as though he carried something so large it rearranged his silhouette. She thought she heard him chuckle but it might have been the gurgle of the tide. ‘Neither a sir nor a gentleman. And not a wherryman, no, child. But stay where you are. I’ll find another way and another place.’

  ‘I – I’m sorry.’ Dizzy and chilled, Tyballis stumbled, steadying herself against the great pillar. ‘I shall leave at once, if you’l
l give me a moment, sir.’

  The hand came out of the darkness. Accustomed to the dangers of an unexpected fist, she backed until the stone blocked her retreat. But it wasn’t Borin’s hand any more than it had been his voice, and she was not knocked down but held up. ‘Steady, steady.’ The hand was long-fingered, unclean and surprisingly strong. ‘You’ve a face more tear-streaked and bruised than any child should be wearing. You’re hiding, then.’

  ‘I was. I am.’ She still couldn’t see the man who spoke, although it seemed he could see her. She mumbled, ‘But I can’t hide from him forever.’

  The dark voice said, ‘Do you dream, child?’ though gave her no time to answer. ‘Better not,’ he continued. ‘It’s a grand gallantry of the human soul to dream, and believe in hope. But experience is a grim teacher. Go home, little one, and deal with your bastard father. Or is he your husband? A father’s hand is said to be any child’s destiny, but a husband is more easily avoided. He could be left. Or something – perhaps – more permanent.’

  She was shivering and could barely stand. It was too wet and too cold and too late. ‘I’d like to leave him. I’d run away, but I don’t know where to run to.’

  Something bumped down by her feet, long, narrow and rolled in oilcloth; the parcel as indistinct as its bearer. It was so heavy that in falling, it shook the ground. Tyballis again lurched backwards. Now more clearly recognisable as a man, without his burden his breath became gentler and the voice lighter. ‘Never run. Keep your pride and walk,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘It’s your husband is the danger, then? And sons?’

  ‘No children yet,’ she whispered. It was an odd intimacy with a stranger she could not see and would never recognise again. The river was shrinking as the tide slunk low, but Tyballis knew her small cracked shoes and the hem of her gown were already sodden. Then she felt the blissful warmth of something wrapped around her shoulders. The smell of sweat and grime was momentarily pungent, then fading into the general riverside stench. ‘I can’t take this,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, girl. You’ll freeze otherwise. I can get another. Go home and light a fire if your miserable wretch of a husband hasn’t one waiting for you.’ The man’s shadow was receding. ‘Kick the bastard in the balls if he tries to hit you. If he does it again, leave him. But don’t expect happiness, child. That’s not an option in this life. Nor, I doubt, in the next. Forget hope. Just fight to live, as long as living’s what you prize. And if you don’t want to risk being seen in a man’s cloak, then sell it or leave it in a gutter for some other pauper to find. But it’ll help keep you alive till you choose to throw it off.’ He bent, his shadow flaring suddenly as he hauled up the great parcel he had dropped. He swung it across his shoulder and balanced it carelessly with both hands. The thing bent at its middle, quivered, then settled, hanging large over both sides. The man nodded, gruff-voiced again. ‘Goodnight to you, child.’ He was gone at once.

  Tyballis trudged the long cold streets back home. It was well past curfew and the streets were almost empty but she kept to the back lanes, avoiding the Watch. The front door of her house was locked against her but from the doorstep she could hear Borin’s snores. She hurried around to the back, where the latch was broken and the door wedged only with old threshing. She pushed her way in. As cold inside as out, the ashes scattered across the hearth were drifting black whispers. Tyballis cuddled the stranger’s cape tightly around her and lay down on the floor to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Margery Blessop kicked her daughter-in-law awake.

  The bells of St Martin’s had rung for the opening of the gates, the calls to prayers at Prime pealing their echoes through the frost, and London was stirring. It was the year of our Lord 1482 during the reign of his grace the blessed King Edward, the fourth of that name. Under his rule peace and prosperity had spread across the land. The cold autumn morning now promised improvements as the sky lightened with a hint of lilac. A scurry of sheep brought in from their open grazing was shepherded into the Shambles and the usual queue pushed through the Bishopsgate, marketers with laden barrows trundling over the cobbles and on towards the foreigners’ market past Crosby’s Place; fresh orchard perfumes and smells of fennel, leeks and parsnips to wake the king’s brother, the Duke of Gloucester, from his peaceful slumber and send him off to Mass with a good appetite.

  The first chamber pots were emptied from the upper storeys, the first dip of the oars rippled the Thames, the first clatter as a thousand wooden shutters were lowered from a thousand windows, and the first spread of raven wings flung black shadows as glimpses of the rising sun curled over the coal-striped rooftops.

  Mother Blessop kicked again and Tyballis groaned. Although her feet were still damp and she was muscle weary, the stranger’s cloak had kept her warm. Scrambling upright, she readied, straight-backed for the challenge of another day. She lifted her apron and hung the cloak on the same peg, shrugged it on and tied the ribbons, then knelt, laying twigs for the fire. Borin continued to snore. His mother topped up the cauldron from the rain keg outside and Tyballis hung the pot on the hook over the fire, pulled up the stool and sat, scrubbing and cutting turnips to add to yesterday’s remaining pottage.

  The slap came unexpectedly and Tyballis dropped the knife. She looked up in surprise and her mother-in-law slapped her again.

  ‘What’s that? Come sneaking back in the small hours, clutching some filthy bugger’s cape about you? Announcing yourself to all the world as the trollop you are? I’ll have Borin flay the flesh from your back.’

  Tyballis lowered her head. She tipped her lap load of vegetables into the simmering broth and said, ‘It’s not what you’re thinking. I found it.’

  Margery slapped her again. ‘Liar. It’s only whoring buys a man’s cape in the rain, not the luck of the saints.’

  Outside, the night’s puddles sparkled with the sun’s rise and the wet streets gleamed gold. The sparrows were bathing in a splutter and flurry as the waking householders let their pigs and chickens out for an early drink.

  Three lanes down between Bread Street and the Corn Hill, Thomas, Baron Throckmorton, lay motionless in the central gutter. Half-naked and no sword left in its scabbard, his fine coat and doublet stolen, his bootless feet pointing cloudwards in their muddy stockings, Sir Thomas displayed a bloodstained rip across his fine Holland shirt. He reclined face-up but his hat had at least been left to him and it now obscured his open-eyed gape with its two partridge feathers.

  The corpse was discovered first by the ravens and wandering dogs, but soon after by the shopkeepers ready for business. The constable was informed immediately. He sent his assistant, who bent and lifted the limp and bedraggled hat, dripping rain and gutter sludge. Assistant Constable Webb recognised the man’s thick red hair and beard at once. He drew in his breath with a whistle and set off to report the murder of one of the peers of the realm. Just over an hour later, he stood between two armed guards on the Blessop doorstep and knocked loudly. He yelled, ‘Open up, in the name of the law,’ which could be heard in every adjacent household and right along the alley.

  Borin Blessop had been about to piss through the broken upstairs window, but stopped abruptly. Downstairs his mother and Tyballis stared at each other. The pause lengthened as every one of the neighbours stopped work to listen. Then Tyballis cautiously approached the door and peered outside. The two-armed guards stepped forwards and Assistant Constable Webb said, ‘It’s official, girl. Get your husband,’ and pushed past her into the smoke-filled room. The guards followed, slamming the door shut behind them. The neighbours, tumbling over each other to listen from their doorways, now shook their heads, bustling further out onto the muddy lane to discover some part of what was happening.

  Upstairs Borin cursed and tugged on his boots, thumped down the little rickety staircase and stood facing the three men filling his downstairs chamber. The fire was smoking as usual, distorting faces. Borin coughed and spat. The guards grabbed hold of both his arms. ‘You’ll
come with us, Borin Blessop,’ said the assistant constable, ‘and come quietly, if you don’t mind. It’ll be questioning first and arrest right after.’

  ‘You’ve lost your senses, man, and not for the first time, neither.’ Borin stood solid. He was twice the size of both guards put together and they couldn’t budge him. ‘I’m a placid man, I am, and done nothing more than sleep through the night like any good Christian should. So, what nonsense is it you claim against me now?’

  ‘Leave my boy alone,’ squealed his mother. ‘You can’t drag a God-fearing man out in this weather in nothing but his shirt.’

  ‘It’s a God-fearing man lying in little else but his shirt not far from here,’ said Webb. ‘Dead as pie crust with a hole in his belly the size of my fist. And it’s you what did it, Borin Blessop, so don’t you pretend to fear the good Lord, as turned His righteous back on you many a long year past.’