Sara was a pretty girl, but she had her brain firmly planted between her legs, in Nob’s opinion. She’d been married to a young poulterer, but he’d died, falling into a well after a few too many ales one night, and she’d had nothing left, other than two of his children and a growing belly. With no money, she’d been forced to sell up and depend on the charitable instincts of her brother Ellis, her neighbours, and the parish. That was when she first started talking to Cissy.
Cissy was known by all the young women in the town to be possessed of a friendly and unjudgemental ear. Girls could, and did, walk miles to tell Cissy their woes, knowing that she wouldn’t usually offer advice, but would listen understandingly and give them a hug if they needed it.
Nob knew that Sara had received many of Cissy’s hugs. The trouble was, although she knew she was foolish to keep allowing men into her bed, she couldn’t stop herself.
‘She’s being called harlot,’ Cissy said thoughtfully, shaking her head and, a rare occurrence this, poured a goodly measure of wine into her cup, ignoring the water.
‘She’ll be all right, love,’ Nob said.
‘Don’t be so foolish. Haven’t you got pies to make?’
Nob grinned to himself. Cissy was on her usual fettle. He sauntered back to the ovens and began making fresh coffins, rolling out a little pastry, spooning his meats onto the middle, and putting the coffin’s lid atop. A few minutes passed, and then he saw her hand deposit another hornful of ale at his side. He smiled his thanks. After last night, he didn’t feel that he needed much ale; water would have been more to his taste, but he wouldn’t turn down anything today, not after keeping her awake all night. That was the trouble with going out and drinking. The bladder couldn’t cope as well as once it had, and then he farted and snored too, making Cissy sharp with him in the morning just when he needed a little comfort. And if he sought a little comfort when he got home from the tavern, he would soon learn that she wasn’t in the mood.
The thought made him feel a little better, and he was just grabbing her experimentally about the waist when a man called out from the shop.
‘I want a meat pie. You know my sort.’
Nob glanced over his shoulder. ‘Morning, Master Joce.’
‘Cook,’ Joce said, nodding. It was the nearest the town’s receiver would come to acknowledging the baker.
Pulling his apron from his shoulder, Nob hooked it back under his rope belt and turned to see to his fire. He must pump with his bellows to make the coals glow again, and then he scraped them all away, to the left-hand side of the oven’s opening, near the entrance, where-their heat would rise and sear the top of the pies. Grabbing his long-handled peel, he loaded it with uncooked pies and thrust them far inside, reloading the peel again and again until he had all but filled the oven. Only then did he set the peel down and rub his hands.
‘Thirsty work, that,’ he observed.
‘Will it be long?’ Joce asked sharply.
‘Sorry it’s not ready yet, Master. It’ll not be very long. Do you want an ale while you wait?’
‘No, I shall sit outside. Call me when it is ready.’
Cissy was watching Joce Blakemoor as he stalked from the room.
‘What’s the matter with him today?’ Nob said. ‘He’s usually more polite than that.’
‘Anyone would think he had something on his mind,’ Cissy said.
‘Hah! I think he probably does.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Come on! You know something. What?’
‘There was talk in the alehouse last night, that’s all.’
‘Oh! You men are worse gossips than all the women in the town. What did they say?’
‘Joce is the town’s receiver, isn’t he?’
‘You know he is. So what?’
Nob scratched at a blister on his wrist. A globule of fat had hit him there two days ago and it itched like the devil. ‘So he’s the receiver, and he has to take in all the fines and so on, keep the accounts and pay over what is owed to the abbey at the end of his term. Well, what if his hand got a bit close to the purses, and a little dribbled into his fingers? And once a little dribbled into his greasy mitts, he chose to take a bit more. What then, eh?’
‘Rubbish! Joce Blakemoor a thief? You’ve been drinking too much ale for breakfast.’
‘You can sneer if you like, but I know what I’ve heard,’ Nob said smugly.
‘And what have you heard, Husband?’
‘Joce hasn’t submitted the accounts for the last couple of years. Why should he do that, unless he’s fiddled them?’
‘Just because he’s bad with paperwork doesn’t mean he’s stolen from the stannary, does it? Christ’s balls, you’ve got nothing better than moorstone between your ears, you!’
‘Oh, really? Then why doesn’t he just ask the abbot for the loan of a decent clerk, then?’
‘Nob, you great dollop, the man probably didn’t want his friends and other burgesses thinking he was as stupid as you! What if the gossip starts? Soon he couldn’t get credit with the traders in the town. He’d never be able to get food, would he?’
Nob was silent, staring at her with wide eyes. She returned his gaze with sudden sharpness, and both glanced at the door.
‘I’ll ask him for cash,’ Cissy promised, folding her arms over her immense breasts like an alewife blocking her door after throwing an alcoholically rebellious customer into the street. Yet while she stood there, she wondered. There was one thing that Sara hadn’t told her, and that was the name of the
