It was five days later when Turold arrived in Lincoln, deep into the afternoon. He was often employed to carry messages for the earl, as he was a nimble rider and a discreet man who had some small knowledge of reading and writing. He was used to travelling to castles and large estates, but now he found himself in the middle of a town, delivering a letter to somebody he’d never heard of, and to be honest he was a bit confused. Why on earth would his lord want to contact anyone here? But he hadn’t become one of the earl’s most trusted envoys by asking questions: he simply obeyed his orders and did his duty, so here he was.
Lincoln was a place of much activity that afternoon, with traders bawling their wares in the sunshine, trying to entice customers towards them; there also seemed to be a fair amount of building work going on in various places. He’d already got lost twice in the maze of streets, before enquiries at a local tavern – which looked inviting enough to be his home for the night – had set him in the right direction. As he guided his horse down a steep slippery hill he looked again at the missive. He was looking for someone called Alys, who was the daughter of the late Nicholas Holland, and she would be running a fabric shop in a street called the Drapery.
He found the street, and after further enquiry about where to find the Holland shop – not to mention a number of curious glances from the townsfolk at the livery he was wearing – he arrived at the building and saw two small boys playing in the street outside the door. On seeing him, the younger of the two fled inside, but the elder stood and looked at him boldly.
Turold hailed him. ‘You look to be a likely lad. Is there somewhere near here where my horse can drink?’
‘Yes sir,’ came the reply, ‘there’s a trough just down the road which the pack animals use.’
He dismounted and tossed his reins to the boy. ‘Take him there and bring him back, there’s a good lad, and you shall have a halfpenny.’
Looking as though he could hardly believe his luck, the boy caught the reins and led the horse down the street, standing tall and proud to be the focus of his neighbours’ attention.
Turold stepped into the shop, adjusting his eyes to the darkness after the bright light of day outside, and after a few moments a girl who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age stepped through from the back room to greet him.
He looked at her, glanced once more at the direction written on the letter, and looked up again.
‘Are you the mistress here?’
She nodded. ‘Yes sir. How may I serve you?’
‘I have a letter for you.’ He held it out.
She looked uncertain and did not extend her hand to take it. ‘A letter? For me? Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m sure that can’t be right. Would you mind waiting a moment while I fetch my husband?’