Mary's 09 - An Argumentation of Historians by Jodi Taylor

Author:Jodi Taylor [Taylor, Jodi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: An Argumentation of Historians
ISBN: 9781597809344
Amazon: 1597809349
Publisher: Night Shade Books
Published: 2018-05-01T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

No one would tell me what was going on – I wondered if Walter still suspected I was some sort of royal spy – but I know William increased the number of lookouts on the road. I’m certain he’d sent men to Rushford as well, to watch and listen.

St Mary’s became a flurry of activity and preparation. John fired up his smithy and the sound of hammer on metal echoed around the village night and day as they repaired old weapons and forged new ones. Possessions were gathered up and packed away, including the precious glass from the windows. The tiny corridor between the hall and the solar was blocked off and converted into a strong room. This was where they packed the St Mary’s treasures. Wool, plate, glass, documents, spices and so on. When the tiny space was as full as it could be, they bricked up the other end and dragged a heavy wooden cupboard in front of it.

Older children and livestock began to disappear into the woods. The pigs went first, driven off under the trees, then most of the poultry and chickens, crammed into small wooden cages and highly indignant. I think such valuables as the villagers possessed were quietly buried in their gardens for safekeeping. I wondered exactly what items they considered worth saving in this century. In the Great Fire of London, Samuel Pepys buried his cheeses. I can’t remember if he ever found them again.

William and Walter walked around daily – William encouraging and urging and Walter finding fault. Men scowled at his retreating back but did as they were told. Walter had lived his entire adult life here and no one could fault his commitment to St Mary’s. He was a 14th-century Dr Bairstow. And William Hendred was his Guthrie.

I tried not to think about that – painful stabs of homesickness could still bring tears to my eyes if not firmly kept at bay. And I knew from experience that once I started down that route it was a very short step to Leon and Matthew and panic and disorientation and despair and grief, with tears and snot and all the unpleasant aftermath of a huge crying jag. So I didn’t think about it. And it’s not as if I didn’t have alternative concerns. We were all about to be invaded. I knew the attack would not prevail, but all I knew were history book details. Attempts to steal the manor of St Mary’s were repulsed etc. etc. I had no idea who would live and who would die. Nowhere was there a list of those who would not survive. People I had come to look on as my friends. Pikey Peter, Father Ranulf, John the Smith, the two stable lads and their incessant but easily rebuffed pursuit of anything in a skirt, Fat Piers and his noisy afternoon naps. And William Hendred, who was all that stood between me and the world. I thrust that thought away as well.

They held weapons practice every afternoon.

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