And They Danced Under The Bridge by John Bentley

Author:John Bentley [Bentley, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Next Chapter
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AVIGNON – THE TOWN

January, February, March 1348 AD

The cold, biting winds and sleet of the winter months did little to hinder the trade and daily lives of the inhabitants of Avignon. All nature of goods for consumption or sale arrived down the river from as far north as Lyon, upstream from Marseilles, and across the Saint Bénézet bridge from France to the west. The high living of the town bought salted fish from Brittany when the icy river inhibited the fresh variety. The three bakers within the walls loaded their stalls to breaking with newly baked loaves and pastries. Vegetable growers brought in potatoes, carrots, onions, broccoli, courgettes, and squash to the Saturday market on the bridge. Guy, the vintner, provided the people with beverages, from red and white wines to cider and distilled liqueurs. They believed the intake of alcohol warded off coughs and sneezes and he boasted the best cellar in all Provence. The fine, proud cart-horses worked until dropping in the summer. Winter was a season of rest for them but, a time of full orders for the farrier and the blacksmith, shoeing at the stables, hammering in the forge.

Men, women, children, young and old, enjoyed the privileges and benefits of a successful town: no-one starved, there few robberies or murders. They had food and drink in plenty, and spiritual succour was readily accessible in the numerous churches. They portrayed a satisfied population. But, for those unwilling to earn an honest coin, begging – though officially prohibited – and minor pilfering or picking pockets was an alternative employment. It ensured the Magistrate and his deputies had enough to occupy their time enforcing the rules and regulations that governed the place.

“How is trade?” Guy, the carter, asked his friend, the baker.

“They eat more bread when it's cold weather, that's for certain! This week I've had the oven going three times a day.”

“Less of your idling!” a man jested to the blacksmith in his forge.

“Idling?” he retorted, “I swear the 'orses 'ave five legs, the rate I'm turning out shoes for 'em!”

“I hope you're not wanting brandy today, Guillaume?” the vintner asked his customer, “sold clean out, no more till the cart delivers, and that'll be next week. They all be drinking it for medicinal purposes, as they puts it. Believe that if you will!”

The Magistrate was happy; Pope Clément was thankful; only the sexton bemoaned there were few corpses to bury, and his wages were down.

After supper, Marius would go to the inn. He was, by now, regarded as a local person rather than a visitor.

“Evening, Marius,” the landlord, Marcel, said in a welcoming tone. The greeting was returned as he sat at his usual table by the fire. His order of a tankard of ale was shortly placed before him. 'I think I've earned this, today' he told himself, pondering over his exertions at the stonemason's yard and the docks. 'I wonder if Alice frequents this inn…I have not seen her since our encounter in the square…' His thought was casual but, nonetheless, serious.

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