On my own, with my thoughts once more, I recall the events of the last few days. Ware was magnificent. I have never known a May Day like it and I doubt I ever will again. Standon, on the other hand, was very interesting. The barn with its concealed door has taught me to question everything. I silently vow to be more alert in the future. Now, though, is the time to return to my spiritual journey. Hence, I grasp the small leather cross, which I bought at Ware in my left hand, and silently recite my prayers – all the time focusing on the life of Jesus. After what seems an eternity, I look up and notice a small bridge with a chapel attached to it. God has answered my prayers.
Alard steps to one side and we stop, grateful for the rest. “Welcome to the Chapel of Lady Bridge. Would anyone like to go in and pray?”
Surprisingly, I am the only one who wishes to enter. The others decide that they would prefer to rest on the riverbank. Agnes announces loudly that her feet are hurting and Ethel appears to be a little breathless. I do hope that they can make it to Walsingham.
As I approach the chapel, I notice that the door is rather low and narrow. I immediately bend down and try to make myself as small as possible. Inside, I am astounded by its beauty. The ceiling is vaulted and has an intricately carved boss in the middle. It depicts warrior monks. Their swords are held high in the air, ready for action. At the back of the chapel, there is an image of the Blessed Virgin Mary and an altar from the Holy Land. The altar is plain and simple, with only a cross for decoration. It is surrounded by burning candles and offerings. To these, I add a penny and leave, crossing myself before I go.
Outside, I can’t wait to tell Agnes and Ethel all about the chapel. After a short rest, we pack up our things and leave. The miles pass pleasantly and I take delight in listening to the birdsong. The flat fields gradually descend into a well-wooded area, the branches of the trees creating an arch for us to walk under. Springs bubble up on either side of the path. Looking around, I realise that this whole area is a labyrinth of water. Pools, streams and ponds are everywhere. All are buzzing with wildlife and insects. As we leave the wood, we continue to cross bridge after bridge and wade through ford after ford. The cool water is very welcome as it numbs my aching feet, but, unfortunately, there is no time to rest.
When we reach the small village of Braughing, there is much amusement and laughter. A group of men are huddled around a shallow section of the river. On the bank, sheep are bleating furiously. Some are loose while others are being held in wattle pens, awaiting their fate. The bleating gets even louder as the men wash them thoroughly in the flowing water. The sheep wriggle and fight until they are turned on their backs. We laugh at the sight of their legs waving in the air and how they attempt to impart revenge upon their tormentors when the washing is over. Some attempt to bite the men before being shooed away.
I am still laughing internally when we approach another sight of great beauty. I have heard of Hay Street many times. Our lord, in his kindness, even presented our church with a beautiful hart skin from this very area. It has become a treasured possession and one that demonstrates the high status of our manor. The skin of a hart cannot be bought; it has to be earned by the hunter and I hear that hunting a stag is by no means easy. It is elusive, lithe and strong. When it enters its prime, it develops a vicious rack of antlers. I shudder at the thought of being impaled upon such things. Many have spoken of hunting the hart, but the words that sum it up best are those of our lord’s ancestor, Edward, Duke of York “… after the boar, the leech, and after the hart, the bier.” Who would have thought that a hart could be more dangerous than a boar?
As we follow the ditch and bank that encloses the deer park, I scan the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive stag. Along the top of the bank is a wooden fence. The stakes look fierce and I fear for anyone who is foolish enough to try and enter without permission. Not far from where I am standing, a herd of young deer are frolicking in the long grass and dining on twigs and ivy. Surely their parents are not too far away. I’m glad to be joined by Owain.
“Are you enjoying the day?”
“Oh, yes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I keep looking for a stag, but I haven’t found one yet.”
“Um, I doubt you will. They are masters of disguise. They hide as soon as they sense people are in the area. Anyway, the yeomen of the forest have probably scared them all away. See, over there, they are mending the nets.”
“What a shame.”
“Never mind. Maybe we’ll see them when we return.”
Nodding, I agree, but the return journey is not something I want to think about at the moment. “Owain, I am really hungry and I have run out of bread. Have we got very far to go?”
“No not very. Alard has arranged for us to be fed and watered in the next village.”
Relief floods over me.
Agnes, having heard this news, announces that she is famished and close to dropping. “We could do with a rest, if possible.”
Leaving the main road behind us, we walk the last part of the journey across the newly ploughed fields. I can see where others have passed this way before, as their footprints are imprinted into the damp clay. When we reach the village of Barkway, Alard directs us through the narrow lanes and then back out into open fields. Confused to be leaving the village, loud groans fill the air.
“Do not despair,” Alard says. “You don’t think that I’d be so cruel as to make you carry on, do you? You see that motte and bailey over there? Well, that’s where we will be staying tonight. We are to lodge at the castle on Periwinkle Hill. It’s rather run-down these days, but it’s warm, safe and dry.”
A sense of relief floods over me as I can’t wait to take my boots off. Others noisily express what I’m thinking. As we approach, I realise that the incline isn’t half as steep as I’d first expected. Instead of climbing rapidly, the land rises gently and it’s not very long until we reach the thick and sturdy curtain wall. We enter through a steeply arched stone doorway to find ourselves standing in the outer bailey, surrounded by hundreds of sheep. They appear reticent to move and impede our journey to the inner bailey. I have trouble negotiating the clumps of sheep dung – every footstep seems to bring with it a squelching sensation. At last, we reach the inner bailey. Inside, there is a large single-storey building. Alard was right when he said that it was run-down. It’s certainly seen better days. Heavy wooden shutters hang from rusted metal fittings and there are piles of stone everywhere.
Alard tries to explain, “I’m so sorry. I can see the look of disappointment on all of your faces, but this castle has long been the subject of feuding between the local nobles. So much so that no one’s ever really looked after it, but please don’t let that worry you. Inside, provision has been made for us. We will be more than comfortable.”
Stepping inside, we realise that Alard is correct. In the middle of the hall, two elderly men are stooped over a large fire. They are preparing our meal. Pots and skillets litter the floor. One is making meatballs, while the other is preparing a pottage. Sheepskins have been fashioned into makeshift beds and are lined around the walls.
“My dearest Alard. I’m so sorry, I did not hear you enter. Welcome, my son, welcome.” The elderly man stands up and kisses Alard on the cheek before addressing us. “Welcome, my dear friends, welcome. Please come in; your meal is nearly ready. I am Philip and this is Morris. If you need anything at all, please just ask. Your beds have been prepared and so have the latrines. You will find scented water and fresh linen cloths within. Try to rest as much as possible. I understand that today’s walk has been testing and I fear that tomorrow’s will be no different. Between here and Newmarket, there are many challenges.” I sense that Alard is annoyed at the last part of the sentence, as he tries but fails to supress a scowl. Philip continues, “Never mind tomorrow. Morris, is that food ready yet?”
I stand to the side and wait for everyone to choose their beds. As usual, everyone sticks to their walking pairs and the only bed left is located between Owain and Davy. This pleases me and I begin unpacking. I place my leather cross beneath my rolled-up cloak, all the time wondering what Philip meant by ‘challenges’.
Joining the others who have already started eating, I am handed a bowl of steaming pottage. The meatballs float between chunks of purple and white carrots. I have never eaten the latter as I thought that they were only meant for cattle, but surprisingly they taste just the same. If anything, they are slightly less chewy. I am offered another bowl, which I gratefully accept. Again, I keep my bread for the journey and I fill up on what is being offered.
When I am finished, I say goodnight and retire immediately, before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.
***
I wake up to the aroma of pancakes being cooked on the hearth. Sweetness fills the air. Sitting up, I can see Morris carefully ladling the thick mixture into the hot fat. It sizzles and spits, indicating that they need to be turned. Next to the fire is a bowl of what looks like apples. I do hope so, as this is my favourite combination. Sitting up, I also notice that all of the men are missing. How strange, but I decide not to go off in search of them. Instead, I join Morris by the fire.
“They look lovely. Can I help?”
“Thank you, Miss. I could do with some help. You see those apples over there? Well, they need to be peeled, cored and added to the pot. I must have them ready for when Philip returns. Otherwise, I’ll get it in the ear.”
Innocently, I ask where the men have gone. “They’ve gone scouting.” I decide to ask no more and concentrate on preparing the apples, all the while fearing what lies ahead.
When the men return, we break our fast on pancakes and stewed apples before preparing to set off. I sense tension in the air between Alard and Philip and I can’t help but wonder what they found on their scouting mission. Moving a touch nearer, I listen intently to their conversation until Davy approaches.
“It was good of you to help Morris with the cooking this morning. He’s terribly slow and Philip gets tetchy if his meals are late.”
“How long have you known Philip and Morris?”
“All my life. They are kinsmen of my mother.”
Our conversation is cut short by Alard, who is trying to chivvy everyone up. “I would like to leave shortly. We are set for the House of the Crutched Friars at Barham. The prior there is a miserable old soul and if we’re late, he’ll moan, but, even worse, if another group of pilgrims arrive before us, they’ll get the best beds.”
Such words were almost guaranteed to spur everyone into action. Outside, we gather and wait for the off. Leaving through the outer bailey, I return to my thoughts. However hard I try, I find it impossible to shake off my concerns. Since we now travel at the back of the group, I decide to ask Owain outright.
Quietly, I lean over and enquire, “Owain, are we in danger?”
A shocked Owain stops and looks at me, “What gives you that idea, Bethany?”
“Well, it was something that Morris said while I was helping him with the cooking. He told me that you had all gone on a scouting mission.”
“That man. He’s an idiot. An out-and-out village idiot. Philip and Alard both told him not to say a word. When will he ever listen?”
“Sorry, Owain, please don’t be annoyed with me.”
“I’m not annoyed with you. How could I be? It’s Morris and his big mouth. You haven’t mentioned this to anyone else, have you?”
“No, just you.”
A grateful Owain sighs. “Alard would explode if he knew and poor Davy would take the brunt of his temper once more.”
“Well, are we in danger?”
To my surprise, Owain laughs. “Maybe, but Morris has it all wrong. Yes, we were on a scouting mission, but not for armed enemies, we were scouting for information. Yesterday, news reached us that the queen had given birth to a son some months ago and it seemed strange that we had only just heard. Edward of Westminster is his name.” Then, in a whisper, “I’m surprised he’s not called Edward of Somerset.”
Trying but failing to look shocked, I nod in agreement.
Owain continues, “The latest news from the court is that the Duke of Somerset was actually found in the queen’s private bedchamber recently.”
I am astounded by the queen’s lack of judgement. How could she? I silently consider whether the rumours of her unfaithfulness are true. Realising that we have fallen behind, Owain takes my arm and we stride out until we catch the others. In just a short while, we approach a very busy crossroads. At the front, Alard waves his left hand in the air and indicates that we must continue in a straight line.
“Owain, where do these roads lead?”
“Well, the left one goes to Cambridge and the right one goes to Sudbury.”
I consider the place names. “Owain, I have heard of Cambridge. People say that it’s a fine place to visit. Am I right in thinking that King Henry is building a chapel there?”
“Yes, Bethany, I have heard of the building work, too, although I rarely visit Cambridge these days, so I cannot say for certain.”
As we approach Barham Priory, I can understand why Alard wanted to arrive sooner rather than later. The last part of the road descends into a heavily wooded area, so much so that the sun is now shielded from our view. I shiver as the air is cold and damp.
“Owain, have we got far to go?”
“No, not very, but don’t get your hopes up. We have to pass Linton Priory first.”
“Isn’t it strange to have two priories so close together?”
“No, not really. All of the land in this area is owned by one religious house or another, and over the years many have been formed and supressed. The local lords are constantly arguing about who owns which piece of land. That’s how the lawyers in Cambridge grow richer each day. They prosper on the constant complaints.”
As we pass Linton Priory, I am surprised by how small it appears. It’s hardly like a priory at all, for it comprises of little more than a boundary wall with a small cell in the middle. Leaving Linton behind us, we are once more plunged into the gloom of the wood.
Even from the back of the party, I can hear Cecily complaining, “I don’t like this. Alard, why did you bring us here? I’m frightened.”
I strain my ears to hear his reply, but I’m unable to do so.
“Answer me, Alard. Why did you bring us here?”
This time, though, I have no problem in hearing him. “I ask you to mind your manners, Cecily. I am in charge of this pilgrimage and therefore everyone’s safety is in my hands. It’s up to me where we go and – let me remind you – if you don’t like it, you’re very welcome to leave and make your own way back to London, but be assured you will travel on your own.”
A blanket of silence descends until we emerge from the woods into a clearing where hundreds of piglets greet us with their squealing. No doubt they are hopeful for food. Barham Priory now stands before us and, to my surprise, the central door opens immediately.
A very fat prior emerges and shouts, “So, you’ve decided to arrive after all then, Alard. We’ve been waiting for hours. I sent strict instructions that you were to arrive early this time.”
Biting his lip, Alard responds, respectfully and calmly, “Prior Heartsease, please accept our apologies, but we came as quickly as possible. Four of our group are of a great age and their legs do not move as fast as the younger ones.”
Surveying the group, Prior Heartsease shrugs his shoulders and turns around before departing.
Alard momentarily holds his head in his hands, before speaking, “I said that he was a miserable soul, didn’t I? Let’s just hope that we’re the first group of pilgrims to arrive or we’ll have to suffer the lumpy beds.”
To everyone’s relief, we are the only pilgrims present. A slightly happier Alard suggests that we all choose our beds as quickly as possible before going through to the hall. After choosing my bed, I decide to lay my cloak over it. This will ensure that it’s cosy and warm when I retire. While doing so, I am surprised to notice a small roll of parchment fall from Cecily’s cloak. She retrieves it quickly and hides it inside a concealed pocket. I scan the room to see if anyone else has noticed. I don’t think so. Cecily’s face is now as white as a sheet. She has sweat on her cheeks and her hair is escaping from her coif. Mindful of her earlier accusations, I carry on as normal and return to Owain’s side, but I have a plan.
Inside the hall, two frightened brothers dole out pottage under the prior’s steely gaze. It doesn’t smell very inviting, but I take it none the less.
“Thank you, Brothers.”
Disturbed by their silence, I ask Owain, “This is not a silent order, is it?”
“No, what makes you think that?”
“Oh, well, when I thanked the brothers, they just ignored me. They never even looked up.”
“They will not speak in the prior’s presence. As you have seen, he has a sharp tongue and they fear retribution. He is a spiteful man and his displeasure can take many forms. They may be chastised, frozen out or even beaten. They have no one to protect them.”
“But that’s terrible. Do you mean that they are only allowed to speak when he approves?”
“Unfortunately, so.”
“Can’t something be done to help them?”
“I doubt it, even Alard has given up lodging complaints.”
After eating my pottage, I decide to retire. I do not wish to look at the prior’s face for a moment longer than I have to. Leaving the hall, I return to an empty bedchamber. No doubt it will fill up soon, but before it does, I decide to take a quick peak inside Cecily’s cloak. On my knees, I crawl across the floor. I fear being caught, but I fear treachery even more. In the moonlight, I can just about see it. It’s rolled up neatly and placed at the top of Cecily’s bed. I try not to disturb the fabric too much, as she may have folded it in a specific way. I carefully slide my hand inside the folds of material. I can feel the lining, soft and heavy, but no pocket. I know that it must be here somewhere, so I stretch out my fingers and keep searching. All the while my breathing becomes more laboured. I am frightened.
At last, my fingers feel the concealed pocket. Delving deeper, I locate the parchment. I can feel a wax seal. Oh no, this is not a good sign. In a moment of madness, I am compelled to take the letter. Crawling back to my bed, I am consumed by fear. What have I done? Cecily will go mad when she realises that the parchment has gone. She will scream and demand that everyone is searched. What if Prior Heartsease is her accomplice? I begin to shake uncontrollably. The door latch rises and falls. I can hear soft footsteps approach. I recognise them as belonging to Davy. I pretend to be asleep, while watching his movements. It seems that I was not the only one to have witnessed the parchment falling from her cloak, after all. Davy is now searching her cloak. I can bear it no longer.
“Davy, come quick – over here.” On hearing my words, I’m unsure who jumped the most. “Davy, please come here.”
“Bethany, I thought that you were asleep.”
“No, I also saw Cecily drop the parchment. I have it here.”
In a flash, Davy is by my side. “You do?”
“Yes, here it is. Take it. I know that I shouldn’t have, but I took it.”
In the moonlight, I can see relief flood over Davy’s face, before he bends downs and very tenderly kisses me on the cheek.
“Thank you, sweet Bethany. Now, go to sleep and – for God’s sake – say nothing. I will deal with this. Cecily will know nothing about the missing parchment tonight as Ned has dropped a strong sleeping draft into her ale, but she will remember and, by Christ, she will be angry when she finds out. Let’s just hope that she doesn’t find out until well after our departure.”
With this, Davy is gone and I’m alone once more. Too frightened to sleep, I wait for Owain to return. Only in his presence do I feel safe.
***
A crowing cock wakes us all just before dawn. Outside the rain has stopped, but a feeling of gloom still hangs in the air. Today, we will not break our fast at Barham. This is the first time that we have ventured out without eating first and my stomach aches with hunger, but last night’s pottage was the worst that I have ever eaten. I listen as the others mirror my sentiments. Ursula, not known to complain, states that she cannot wait to leave, as does Bernadette, who is scratching furiously. “My bed was absolutely crawling with bugs last night.”
Fortunately, Alard enters and directs us to gather our belongings and to make our way to the porch immediately. Standing together, Alard bids farewell to the prior and thanks him for his hospitality.
Even now, the prior displays no kindness. “We must pray. Drop to your knees, all of you. Come on, I command that you all kneel.”
Fearful of annoying the prior, we all do as we are told. I, for one, find it impossible to concentrate. How dare he speak to us in such a manner. Ethel, Ursula and Agnes are old, and kneeling will hurt them. I can see pain in their eyes already. I long to curse him, but I stop short of doing so. I will not descend to his level, but equally I will not pray in such a frame of mind. Looking about, I notice the small ring on his index finger. It’s a seal and, if I’m not mistaken, it’s the same as the one on Cecily’s parchment. Long and oval, it depicts St Margaret standing on a dragon. In her right hand, she holds a long cross and in her left hand, she holds a book. How I wish Prior Heartsease could be trodden on and defeated like the dragon. After the short prayer, we are instructed to leave. Happily, we do so, and the feeling of gloom begins to lift.
Once we are out of the prior’s earshot, Alard apologies profusely for our stay. “I am so sorry to have put you all through that, but I had little choice. This area is unpredictable at the best of times, but please do not worry – for in a short while, we will break our fast properly. Until then, we have bread and cheese to see us through.”
Relieved to have something tasty to eat, we sit by the side of the road to enjoy it. I cannot help but notice that Cecily appears rather floppy. Her head is lolling from one side to the other, and her words are slurred.
Agnes, finding this amusing, laughs. “That one must have drunk far too much ale last night. Probably to wash away the taste of that awful pottage.”
The laughter continues as stories of last night’s awful stay are told.
Once we are rested, Alard gets to his feet. “Come on then. Newmarket beckons and, with it, hot sausage pasties.” With these words, Alard once more leads our party.
Almost immediately, a speeding horse can be heard and we all freeze in terror. I’m unsure of its exact location, but I sense that it’s somewhere behind me. The noise stops abruptly and I hear the rider dismount with a hollow thud. Alard can be heard to shout, “Friend or foe?”
Turning around, I am relieved to see that the herald is clad from head to toe in pale-blue and white. “Forgive me for frightening you. My name is Edmund and I come with a warning from our lord. There has been trouble in Newmarket. Arson, we fear, and to make matters worse, the queen’s men have been seen in town. Please guard yourselves, stay close, do not separate, keep your allegiances secret and be especially careful when passing through the heath. Recently, it has become a dangerous place for felons and evildoers roam freely. Large parts of the town have become unsafe and we have received numerous reports of robberies and abuse. The king’s subjects live in fear of the queen’s men. Hence, our lord now fears for his tenants and supporters. Ambushes have become commonplace and tensions have risen. Allegiances are changing quickly and our lord wishes to protect those who are loyal to him. Beyond Newmarket, you will be safe, but, in the meantime, take care.” With those words, the herald remounts and disappears off into the distance, leaving us in disarray.
Alard, quick to act, instructs Ned to lead. “I will protect our flank alongside Owain and Davy. We must make haste. There is no time to waste.”
Entering Newmarket feels like descending into a valley of fear. The road dips down sharply and within minutes, a wave of noise hits us. There are tenements and inns on both sides of the high street. We are to stay at The Griffin, an inn aligned to the Dukes of Clarence and our lord’s family. The innkeeper, Arthur Greysson, and his wife, Margery, are to be our hosts. Although I doubt that we will see much of them, as I hear that they are also the keepers of The Sword, The Bull and The Saracen’s Head.
Owain, who has linked his arm with mine, explains that we are nearly there. “We just have to cross the tollbooth and then our safety is guaranteed.”
I survey the scene in front of us and wonder how so many traders can share such a small space. There are stalls akin to workshops everywhere. Certainly far too many for me to count. In a split second, madness descends. Two men have appeared from nowhere and are dragging me away from Owain. I can smell their foul breath and see their brown decaying teeth. One has a small dagger in his hand and he is thrusting it straight at my stomach. His accomplice tries to snatch my leather purse. My mind begins to race. Sweat is pouring from my body. I can see the knife blade glinting in the sunlight. I retch and can feel the contents of my stomach gurgle upwards. People continue to swarm around. Surely they must be able to see what’s happening? It seems that people are averting their eyes. I begin to sob uncontrollably. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they are gone. Owain, having regained his balance, is once again by my side, holding me close. My head is spinning and my mouth is dry. Blackness descends.
Mother Mary, please help me. My body aches and my head is throbbing. Where am I? I can smell warm beeswax and sense a gentle heat wafting in the air, but I just cannot think straight. Gingerly, I open my eyes and look around. Everything is out of focus. I close my eyes again and, in that moment, I remember what happened. I vividly recall the two men and I begin to sob uncontrollably.
“Bethany, please do not cry. You are safe.”
Owain holds my hand and an unknown priest smiles down at me. The priest repeats Owain’s words with the emphasis on ‘You are safe’.
“Owain has told me of your terrible experience and it pains me,” the priest says. “Alas, Newmarket is not safe nowadays. By the very nature of the town, people come and go, but it’s made worse at the moment by the presence of a great many strangers. They have made their way here in readiness for the fair on the heath. Myself and many others have petitioned that mass events should be outlawed. Unfortunately, the powers that be do not want to hear us. They quote history in their defence. They say that King Edward II granted permission for markets, fairs and tournaments to be held on the heath. In turn, we argue that there are so many fairs nowadays and surely it would be better to keep to just the three main ones. We are sure that these would suffice. The town has a problem with illegal supplies as it is. Ale is the main problem. There is just not enough to go around. Recently, by-laws have been passed stating that residents should be given preference over travellers, but it’s obviously more profitable to sell to travellers as the price can be raised and they are none the wiser. Unfortunately, it’s not only the amount of ale on offer that’s the problem. The local alewife’s employ some very underhand ways. The supply short measures aplenty, especially when the men have been at their cups too long and are hazy of mind. Sorry, I should not go on like this, you must rest. The trouble is that I care so much for all the souls and I am distressed at the un-Godly behaviour taking place on a regular basis. Today, we have cuts and bruises, but I hate to think of what tomorrow may bring.”
The father crosses himself. Owain and I immediately do the same. Sitting up, I smile and tell Owain that I am well enough to leave. The shock has passed. Turning to the father, I thank him for looking after me.
“Praise the Lord,” he replies. “I had feared the worst when you arrived. You were so pale and lifeless when Owain carried you in. Let’s pray in the Old Chapel before you leave.”
Walking down the centre aisle, we enter the Old Chapel through a very small doorway.
“Did you know that pilgrims flock here from all over the country to pay their respects in this chapel? They honour the memories of St Simon Theobald and St Thomas Becket. St Simon’s skull rests not far away in St Gregory’s Church at Sudbury. He’s known to perform miracles and protect the innocent, and that’s just what we need here.”
Outside, we make our way along the high street. I have never felt so nervous. I’m aware that I’m acting like a madwoman, turning this way and that, but I just can’t help myself. Owain calls out, “Bethany, wait!” but it’s too late. I curse and then immediately feel remorseful, for it’s my own fault. If only I had stopped when Owain called out to me. Now I have hit my head on the low-hanging sign of The Swan Inn and I have no one to blame but myself, as we had been warned about the sign when we entered Newmarket. Apparently, the innkeeper, John Kyrkeby, is forever being fined for displaying his sign too low and a great many others have suffered the same fate. Why, oh why, did we choose to rest in this terrible town? I would prefer to sleep in a dry ditch. I can see bystanders laughing at my fate. I can hear them, too. They are saying, “Poor soul; she’ll be black and blue on the morrow.”
Safe inside The Griffin Inn, I sit by the fire. Ursula and Agnes are by my side. At last, I can relax. Davy hands me a cup of ale, which I gratefully accept, while Bernadette holds a cold compress to my head.
“Thank you, the throbbing has nearly stopped.”
A smiling Davy announces, “Well, let’s hope it stays that way.”
A joyful Ned shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll keep the noise down if that’s what you mean, Davy? For I have no plans on being raucous tonight. Instead, I am going to treat everyone to a sweet lament – a love song that I learnt in France. It tells the story of Tristan and Iseult.”
To everyone’s amazement, Ned has the most beautifully pitched singing voice. Sitting transfixed, we let the cares of the day wash away.
As morning breaks, we are treated to a beautiful pink sky. Everything bodes well for a pleasant day. Today, we are set for Ely. It’s a slight detour, but one that Owain says is well worth the while. It seems that none of us will be sad to leave Newmarket behind. For unbeknown to me, Ethel witnessed a robbery and Cecily was subjected to lewd behaviour. I will not go into detail – suffice to say that men should keep their private parts to themselves. Alard had his soft brown leather belt stolen and is really quite distraught. Walking ahead of us, his shoulders are hunched and we can all hear him huffing and puffing loudly.