over the slate, peering at the design he had drawn by the dim light of the candle. By day he had to work on the burghers’ slippers and boots, but when his time was his own, late in the night, he thought of new ideas, new patterns, something different. He could never afford the materials to put his thoughts into practice, but that did not stop him from dreaming. This little pair of ladies’ slippers, now, if he could…
A harsh hammering on the door brought Walter to his feet.
“Wal—Walter?” a voice called. “Waller! Open up!”
Good gracious. Martin Millerson. What did he want at this hour of the night?
Walter drew back the bolt and opened the door.
“Marty! You’re soaking wet!”
“Waller!” The young man beamed at him from under a dripping shock of hair, swaying back and forth in the doorway. “You m’friend. You—y’unnershtand bootsh. Need you.”
Walter held the candle closer. There was a cat next to Martin, a large black and white animal who gazed up at Walter with an inscrutable look on its face. Not that cats ever had any other look on their faces.
“What is it, Marty? What do you need me for?”
“The cat,” pronounced the miller’s son, a lecturing finger held in the air, “that cat,” and he tried to point to the cat, who he apparently thought sat at his left. To his surprise, the cat was on his other side, but his pointing finger did not find the animal until it had wrapped itself once around Martin’s body, making him spin in a wobbling circle. By a near-miracle, he stayed upright. “The cat,” he began again, jabbing his finger at one of three cats his eyes seemed to be showing him, “that cat—that one? Yesh, that one. That cat wantsh shome bootsh.” He wisely nodded his head, which proved too much for his balance, and he staggered.
Walter sprang forward and grasped his arm to steady him, then wrinkled his nose as the ale fumes hit him in the face. “Odds blood, Marty! You’re utterly pissed.”
“Am I?” The miller’s son blinked his eyes. “Yesh. I’m pished. Ow. Head hurtsh. But the cat, he wantsh bootsh. And I got money, shee?” He thrust his hand with its four farthings into Walter Shoemaker’s face. “Money for cat’sh bootsh.”
Walter looked down at the cat, who now sat quietly licking its white-tipped paw. It was certainly a handsome animal, with its sleek black back and head, the feet, nose, throat and chest bright white. The mill cat. There were stories about those mill cats, stories he remembered hearing from his Nan, Gammer Grizel. They were not quite like other cats, the mill cats, Gammer had said, but no one knew just what that difference was. The miller might have known, but he never said, and now he was gone. A week since, of pleurisy. Likely that was the reason for this bender Martin had gone on; even though the miller had been quite old and his death not unexpected, his youngest son was bound to take it hard. He felt things deeply, that lad; Walter had often suspected it. Not like his brothers. Geoffrey and Robert were good enough men, but they had never understood their little brother, born so much later than they, when they were nearly grown. Walter felt a far greater affinity with this young fellow, just barely come of age, with his sensitive face and deep-set grey eyes, than with the miller’s elder sons, even though he and they had grown up together.
The cat raised its head and gave Walter a green-eyed stare.
“So you want boots, do you?” Walter said to the cat. “Well, come on inside then, Puss. You too, Marty.” He pulled his friend’s arm.
“Nope, nuh-uh!” said Martin, trying to shake his head, which made him wobble on his feet again. Water dripped down on his nose as his black hair flopped over his forehead, nearly obscuring his eyes.
“Yes, you need to get in out of the night air,” said Walter. “It’s cold, and you’re all wet. Come on, Marty.”
“Nope,” insisted the miller’s son again. He twisted around to look for the cat. “Nope, no’ Push. Hish name’sh not Push. Canno’ r’member what it ish. Toby, p’rhapsh.” He let Walter pull him into the house.
The cat followed, and it watched as Walter propped Martin against the wall in the passage while he bolted the door again. That animal certainly has a knowing look to it, thought the shoemaker to himself. He steered Martin into his workshop and sat him down on the chest which stood in the corner by the fire. The miller’s son was beginning to shiver, his wet shirt clinging to his back. The cat padded over to him and wound itself around his ankles.
Walter draped a blanket around Martin’s shoulders.
“Thanksh,” mumbled the young man, his teeth chattering. “But the cat needsh bootsh. You gonna make the cat shome bootsh?”
Walter rolled his eyes. There was nothing one could do with Martin when he had a fixed idea like this in his head. He might as well humour his friend.
“Very well,” he said. “You lay yourself down by the fire and have a sleep, and I’ll see what I can do about those boots.”
“Got money,” mumbled Martin, thrusting out his fist with the farthings. Suddenly a tremendous sneeze shook him, and the coins dropped on the floor. “Damn,” he said quietly, as if he no longer cared, “the money fell dow…” He slid off the chest into a heap in front of the fire, his eyes closed.
Walter peered at his friend’s face. No, there was nothing wrong. The ale had finally won out, and Martin was asleep. The shoemaker covered him up more securely with the blanket and banked the fire so no hot coals would spill out to burn him. The cat came over, curled up beside Martin, licked its back paws a few time, and settled down for a rest, too.
Its back paws. Walter stared at the cat’s back legs, where the white patterning extended as far as the first joint. It looked for all the world as if the animal was wearing white stockings. A pair of boots, huh? A tiny pair of leather boots. Black, to match the cat’s coat, with elegant bucket tops and some decorative stitching across the saddle. He had just the right pieces of leather, there, on the top shelf of the… There was a little clink as he stepped around Martin’s body. The money! His foot had hit one of the miller’s son’s coins. Yes, the money. He did not want to take his friend’s farthings; he was quite certain they were the last he had. But when Martin took an idea in his head, there was no dislodging it. And to be honest, Walter could not afford to do free work. Even the small pieces of off-cuts which were no longer enough for a full shoe he needed to save for paying work; perhaps one of the burghers would want a tiny pair of shoes for his firstborn, or a strong leather purse to carry his pennies in. He could not waste the leather on a fancy. But this, this was no mere amusement, it was a commission. Even though it had sprung from the ale-befogged brain of his poor friend, even though four farthings was nowhere near enough to cover the cost of the material, let alone his labour, it still counted as a commission. Walter’s conscience was appeased.
He found the other three coins on the floor, dropped everything into his cash box, then pulled the soft pieces of black leather from the shelf by the window. He took a close look at the cat’s paws. The cat, just like Martin, was fast asleep. Walter picked up the limp, relaxed paw in his thumb and forefinger to measure the size. Two thick small ovals for the soles, from the brown stuff he had used for the bottoms of Mistress Ermengarde’s kid boots. The cat would never wear the boots—who ever heard of a cat in footwear?—but Walter was a craftsman. He had been asked to make the cat some boots, so he would make the cat some boots.
He spread the leather on his work bench and began measuring.