Interstitial
FIRST EPISTLE, concerning the wards and liveries of the city of London
Written by the hand of EDWARD by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Aquitaine, Conqueror of Wales
The ninth annual Round Table tournament held at the Guildhall in the city of London successfully concluded with the appointment of eighteen new recruits into the Royal Levy.
They were to be outfitted, solemnly committed, and sent to the battalion at Westminster, then to Wales the next morning after a sunrise consecration ceremony at Parliament restricted to immediate family members only.
Meanwhile back in London the bone marrow fritters sold out and the chilled strawberry soup proved a sensation.
There were no riots, no fires, but one mare broke loose, one protestor was hung, three assaults, seven thefts, one murder, but again no fires, no misadventure, two maimings, five assaults of vicious battery.
Of note was a child who suffered a fit and died in the queue to view Arthur’s chalice, whose parents considered it an act of God but the ward constable insisting on charges of woeful negligence and a jailing.
Another constable reported acts of calamitous misadventure near that same queue, of an elderly man stabbed in a brawl outside the jousting, whose body was discovered later that evening in the Thames.
In brief: three horses died of exertion, two knights suffered bleeding head wounds, the wool exchange reported record losses, seven Welshmen were beheaded at the Tower, public works were completed on Cornhill Road, unsold meat spoiled, and everyone commented on the purple pansies that bloomed, so strangely out of season, in the churchyard at St. Paul’s and how what a shame it would be in two weeks’ time, when the first chill of November would clench its jaw tightly and not let off until it had bled dry the melt.
What went unreported that day was a solemn vow of devotion made by one Simon of Greenwich, in the upper bedroom of the Five
Chances Inn, at midnight, mouthed silently and promised irrevocably to God, the contents of which would go neither mentioned
nor confessed, ever, but could easily be surmised by the subsequent service of care he administered to his brother in Christ,
his pledged bedfellow, George, also of Greenwich, of whom the informed have been made aware.
Few noticed George and Simon leaving the Five Chances in the silent morning after the festival, when the constables changed shifts and the breakfast bells had yet rung and the gulls fought for leftover leeks spilled from cartons and the cobbles were still wet with ale.
Only the widow Marjorie of Goutter Lane could remember the discreet loitering of George and Simon in the alleyway behind her tailoring shop and the pleasant smiles on their faces when she agreed to let them in early, before working hours.
She recounted to the equerry how easy they were to part with their money, and the awkwardness of the timid one, George, how he struggled to pair his understockings with his tunic, not understanding the correct knots for his cloak shutting, his strange accent, his strange manner, his insistence on better shoes with thicker soles, and his easy laughter. Flippancy was what Marjorie called it.
“No man can afford to sling money around like those two did. Sure, all I operate is a brokerage of linens, all secondhand,
but you’d have thought they was purchasing new ones in full—wanting the garments tailored to fit snug, which of course I obliged
for the extra penny as needed, not uncommon, but for so many purchases and in such a rush, and outside trading hours—I warned
them of the penalties I could yet face—and I promise you, Sir, I did not tally the coinage until the proper time. Oh the strange tongue on the one—to be of such flippancy and softness,
yet unsure, yet demanding in such a silly way. To be honest I’d confess he was a delightful company to have, ’specially so
early in the morning, and my ledgers being nicely fitted for the day—nicely for the week, mind you—once I had tallied them
in proper—but how queer, how freely they both was together, the two of them. If you’d have told me they was the two boys from
Greenwich gone escaped, who’d caused the ruckus at the manor and run so afoul of the lord there I’d have happily reported
them straightway to the constable, but I had nary the faintest idea. Their politeness, their cheery abandon. At most my thoughts
was that they might be new recruits headed east—gallant enough, new money, albeit so excitable and prone to laughter, I know
how that younger lot are. But they weren’t going east, no far from it. North they said. Far north. And alone. Just the two
of them. They both seemed so cheerfully unsure.”
George and Simon left London that morning and were far beyond the city gates by the time the sun finally warmed the landscape, colored the frost, heated the stains of sweat beneath their new garments and satchels filled with wares.
A blanket, two porcelain plates, thread, a knife, brass buttons, a bow, a hatchet, netting, seeds—these clattered around in the rucksack George and Simon carried in turns, the contents of which were learned from receipts obtained at Duckett’s Green, a blacksmith at Berkhamsted, and the keeper of the Inn of the Sea Mare, in Aldbury, who remarked on the openness of the boys, their ease and decorum.
“Two lads starved on the road all day and you’d have thought they’d be right fit for demanding all sorts, but all they requested was a roof, nary the bread I scraped together and offered, which they took with great thanks.
And though the stew had gone cold, it warmed up roundly with a dash of next morning’s porridge, and with the coals still warming they were indeed grateful more so than was worth the fuss.
They seemed amateur but in good spirits, not full of themselves, eager to move as fast as they could.
I recommended the carriageway northeast by a few farthings—if they could manage it in the morning, they’d catch the next caravan, albeit small, but safe and of a reliable guild, well protected.
And if their silver was persuasive enough, there were older knights, hunting parties, and the like.
If they were on the run from something, it was well enough disguised in their cheerfulness.
They were not fearful but excitable as they spoke of the land they were heading toward—a homestead in the north—eyes misting in the one that spoke of the fells and trees, deep barrows of earth full of badgers and mushrooms, foxes, wet logs the size of houses and a stream running through the middle of twenty acres, of water so pure like blanketed glass and deer at each bend, beavers, ravens, squirrels, bees; greenery lush like a cake.
So stirring was how he talked, that I had forgotten the trail of conversation, and hadn’t noticed how little the other one—George, you say—had spoken.
By the way he looked about his self, I saw a lostness, or a sense of thought too wide and great to fit through simple doors.
Real feelings. Both lads had a rawness about them that I felt I was intruding myself upon.
And that was the next thing I did in fact—excused myself.
I left the two of them for the night before I could ask them exactly where they were going.
I apologize I did not press them further. ”
Records of George and Simon’s journey become harder to link together from here onward. We know a caravan was joined at Poynders
End, bound for Peterborough. Of the land discussed with the innkeeper, a line of inquiry indeed found the reallocating of
a smallholding by a judge at Malton, northeast of York, the recording of which is sparse, understandable given the nature
of the land—it being just an old smallholding, untamed, gnarled, and tainted by XXXXXX residue. Whilst the boundaries had been claimed, then reclaimed, passing from hand to hand, nothing of permanence had been
done to solidify a patch of woodland squeezed between the Moors and Scarborough, where talk of a XXXXXX had caused a desertion of industry and a pinch point of migration in an otherwise unnoteworthy realm.
Even the old Roman roads had buckled and been broken by the strains of pure nature, the coastline unabridged, the rivers melting into marsh and yet still a land grant was granted, a seal broken and resealed, soil daring to be tilled in the most feeble of winters.
Something was in motion. The helm of the earth seemed unfettered.
It was the year 1300 and a time traveler was in our midst. And I rode out to meet him.