Chapter 32
The door of the Four Alls Inn at Blithe Bridge swung closed behind Master Cedric, shutting out what remained of the fading summer sunlight. He’d spent a frustrating day slamming the beater against the complicated cloth, but none of his other skills had come into play. They weren’t needed! What was the use of him, then? The simplest apprentice, that Diccon lad, had proved that he could manage that task, after a fashion, that was. As long as the bobbins were kept filled and the warp wheel taut, the loom did virtually all the work by itself. Both Sir Timothy and Master Blackford looked well pleased with that concept. Did they truly mean to do away with the craft and trust it all to machines?
Aye, the cloth was fetching, and made good money. Weren’t the coins in his purse proof of that? But he had naught to do with it! How was he to take pride in his job, if he could be replaced by one more hank of wires? That boy—he hated taking orders from a lad who had been at his wet-nurse’s breast only a short time ago—pretended to be humble, but he was taking a man’s honest job away from him, and proud to be doing so.
He glared through the gloom and noticed that the bench he normally liked to sit on, the one with the unobstructed view of the door, was full of men drinking and playing a game of flip-the-knife. One big fellow, Thomas Gorsey, a weaver’s journeyman he knew from Stone, the village not far south of Barlaston, flicked his belt knife up into the air as his friends shouted wagers. When the blade came down, it buried itself tip-first into the rough and much-scarred tabletop. Two of the others cheered, and the others grumbled as Gorsey gathered up the farthings and stuffed them into the purse on his belt.
As much as he wanted to take his place at that table, he wasn’t in a mood to join in the game. He wanted to drink a lot, and keep an eye out for his wife, Dorcas. On payday, she made the rounds of all the taverns in the area, to find him and extract as much coin as she could from his wages before it all went down his gullet. This wasn’t the normal day, thank the saints, so he could drink for a while and avoid going home to her and their noisy brood. He wanted to sulk in peace, and use as much of his earnings on himself as he could.
Instead, he had to take a corner of the table nearest the window. The two barmaids, daughters of the landlord, noticed him. The elder, a homely girl named Gaynor who tried to make up for her misfortunate looks by being excessively cheerful, sashayed over to him. Her cheer annoyed him. She swished her skirts back and forth attempting to raise a smile or better from him.
“What will please you tonight, sir?” she asked. “Master Crupper has just tapped a fine keg of ale. Smooth and tasty.”
“A pint,” he said, curtly. “And don’t let my cup run dry.”
“Aye. I’ve not seen Mistress Dorcas yet tonight.” With what she must have thought of as a winsome smile, she undulated back to the bar to pull a draught for him. He pressed his lips together tightly and lowered his face so he didn’t have to meet any condemning glances. Everyone in the area knew his wife. He couldn’t hide from her forever. He gave her plenty, damn her! Was he to enjoy none of his hard work? Was it his fault that they had six children, and every one of them ate like a hog at a trough? No one ever went hungry, not that he’d noticed.
A mug plunked itself onto the tabletop. Cedric reached for it without looking up, but it shifted out of his grasp. He raised his eyes, ready to snarl at Gaynor, but the possessor of the cup wasn’t her. Instead, it was the stranger, Ben, who had been in and out of the tavern all summer long. The round-headed man with the pockmarked cheeks grinned at him and hoisted the beer mug in salute.
“What ho, my friend. You shouldn’t look as if a pack of troubles was tied to your back! It’s a fine summer evening. You should be breathing the sweet air and thanking Heaven for the bounty.”
Cedric shook his head. Gaynor came to set down his beer. Cedric fumbled for his pouch and began to extract a coin. The stranger reached for his own purse and took coppers from it. He handed them to the girl.
“You look as though you need a friend,” Ben said to Cedric. “I’ll buy the first round. Tell me your problems, and let them be halved.”
The unexpected treat mollified Cedric. He took a powerful pull at the beer. Once the calming brew hit his belly, he could let go the humiliation of the moment.
“Why would I break my back just to sit and tug a bar back and forth?” he asked the air. “Why did I learn all the secrets of my craft for nothing? I’ve been a faithful servant to his honor and done me job all these fifteen years to be reduced to a dog turning a spit!”
“Has your rank been reduced?” the other man asked in concern. “Are ye no longer a master weaver?”
“Muck take the squire! I’m still called a master, but it’s all for show.”
The stranger sat back and took a pull from his own mug, eying Cedric with curiosity. “Ye’ve been saying these last weeks that ye’re in doubt as to the craft of these Germans who’ve come to help out. Have they not done what they promised? Haven’t you been paid an honest wage?”
Cedric spat on the rushes lining the floor. “Oh, aye. My wages and more beside!”
“More?” The other man’s eyebrows rose into his greasy hairline. “You received a gift alongside your rightful income?”
Cedric slammed his mug on the table. “He calls it profit sharing. It’s to buy our silence! But I will be silent no longer on the assault to my pride.” He dropped his voice as the door opened again. To his relief, it wasn’t his wife, but a number of other weavers from the estate. They were all looking cheerful and expansive, and he wanted no part of them. They joined a huddle of craftsmen from the town to the south at the bar, and struck up conversations, ignoring him. That was just as well. He had to deal with them day in and day out, except for on the Sabbath.
“What silence needs buying?” Ben pressed. “You and your fellows weave the cloth. Your master sells it. He pays you for your labor. All is well.”
“Ah, but it’s no ordinary cloth,” Cedric said, then clamped his lips shut.
Ben’s eyebrows rose again. “What’s it made of? Moonlight and fairy dust?”
“Nay, it’s made of pure wool, off the backs of the sheep in the squire’s fields.”
“Then what’s the cause of the extra money?”
Cedric scoffed. “You’re not a weaver. You wouldn’t understand the difference.”
“I’m not a butcher, neither, but I can tell the difference between lamb and pork. What’s going on with this new cloth?”
Cedric was torn between airing his grievance and keeping the promise extracted by the guild master. “Ah, well, it’s a complicated weave. Made using machines brought over by the Germans.”
“New machines, is it?” Ben, seeing that Cedric’s mug was low, winked at Gaynor, who hurried over with a pitcher. She poured more for each of them. Cedric drained half of it in a gulp and belched from his belly. “From the Germans? What business does he have working with Germans?”
Cedric shook his head. “Times be hard, and he’s been looking out for anyone who can help him forestay troubles from the tax collectors. That’s what he thinks these machines do, taking work from good men and bestowing it on gears and boxes!”
Ben’s eyebrows went up. “Something that makes good woolens even better? How do they work? What do the Germans have to do with it? Is Sir Timothy swearing allegiance to them now instead of His Rightful Majesty?”
“Nay, it’s naught like that!”
Master Matthew had just taken a mug of beer from the innkeeper. He overheard the question and made his way over to Cedric, leaning his hand in a casual manner on the edge of the table.
“Now, Cedric, you shouldn’t be taking Sir Timothy’s business outside his premises. We have an agreement!”
A few of the weavers from the manor to the south now crowded around curiously.
“Now, Matthew, we’ve been hearing rumors,” a broad-shouldered man named Master Michael Gooden said. He worked for Sir Alfred Jervis at Meaford Hall, west of the pub in which they now drank. “What’s going on that’s so unusual? What new machines? Are ye not using looms any longer?”
Cedric shot a look of annoyance at Matthew. “Looms, forbye? Oh, that we are. But it’s like sitting in the middle of a clock, with gears all around you like you’re the little man who will be pushed out to strike the hour! It has more pulleys and wires than anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Wires? What for?”
“That’s enough, Cedric,” Matthew said, still patient, at least outwardly. “The ale is striking you harder than usual. Go on home. Dorcas will be here any time, and she’ll set us all by our ears for letting you drink up your wages.”
“And don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?” Cedric snapped back. “Taking money for letting our craft turn into clockwork? Spinning out a bolt in a single day, but ye can’t claim you actually did anything, can you?”
“What’s that?” Michael asked, wrinkling his forehead. “A bolt in a day? How’s that even possible? Our guild master has said ye’ll have tricks to share, but he’s said nothing about that.”
“Oh, aye, and it isn’t just ordinary cloth,” Cedric said, maliciously enjoying the horror on Matthew’s face. “We can’t even take credit for the skill involved in making a brocade, for it’s the machines doing it all.”
Michael looked astonished. “How in the burning wastes can ye make a brocade on a wool loom? It’s as intricate as an orchestra playing.”
One of the men laughed, but Ned Bywater, one of Cedric’s journeymen, spoke up, his broad red face eager.
“It’s a wonder! Looks like pounced embroidery, lifted right off the surface. The wisdom for making it is all enclosed in little clay boxes, like the genie’s lamp! We’ve barely to make an effort, and it turns out the most beautiful of fabrics, with roses and leaves all over it like a garden.”
“Here, here,” Matthew said, shocked. He looked at the other de Beauchamp weavers in alarm. “That’s enough. Cedric, your men shouldn’t be discussing guild business here.”
“And why not?” Peter Chance, a journeyman who had left Sir Timothy’s stable to work for a master in Oulton. He often came to drink with his old colleagues at the Four Alls, as if he missed them. “Isn’t it all of our guilds’ business, anything to do with weaving?”
Matthew stopped and gathered himself. “I misspoke. It’s Sir Timothy’s business, not strictly our craft.”
“And what else could it be used for?” Cedric interrupted him. “You think you can attach one of those akalabors to a cow and make her produce more milk?”
“Tell us more,” Peter pressed. “Tell me how you made a bolt in one day.”
“I didn’t do such a thing,” Matthew said, trying to divert the conversation. “And true, there are additions to the looms, but looms they remain, my friends. In the end, we are still weaving wool, as my family has for ten generations. Here’s to our craft, one and all!” He lifted his glass. Many of the others matched his toast. They drank.
“Nay, nay, what’s going on that’s so unusual?” Ben pressed, clearly reluctant to let the discussion die away.
“Sir, I don’t know you,” Matthew said, affecting a puzzled look. He looped an arm around Cedric’s shoulders and attempted to pull him to his feet. “But let me take my friend home again. His wife is surely looking for him.”
“Let me be!” Cedric snarled. He shook off Matthew’s arm. They were nearly the same as far as strength and endurance went, able to carry bales of wool and manage their machines all day if needed, but Cedric had the advantage of a good load of ale on board. He dodged Matthew’s attempt to take hold of him again. “The devil take my wife! She’s a hindrance, and so are you!” He turned to Ben. “The unusual is that the whole contraption runs on water!”
“By water? Like a mill?” Ben asked, clearly interested. He jingled the purse on his belt. Cedric felt malicious satisfaction in thwarting Matthew’s efforts to still his tongue. He’d get more beer, free, and possibly a tip as well.
“It’s not exactly that,” he said. How to describe the workings? He glanced at Ned for support. His journeyman opened his mouth.
Master Matthew cleared his throat threateningly, and Ned halted before he could speak. “Cedric, shut your hole. We’ve agreed, and Master Blackford has agreed. Nothing will be said outside until the guild masters have had a chance to talk amongst themselves.”
“To the darkness with Master Blackford! I’ll tell what I want to tell and show what I want to show!”
“We all want to see it,” Ben said, encouraging him. “I want to see what’s so special about it, and what Sir Timothy intends to do with these machines. Take us over there and let us see.”
“Perhaps you’d best go home and sleep it off,” Matthew said, still trying to appear kindly.
Cedric was tired of people trying to tell him to shut up. Without another word, he threw off the hands of the people and marched out of the door of the inn.
It wasn’t full dark yet, and besides, he knew every step of the way if he’d been blindfolded and far more drunk than he actually was. He marched uphill toward Churnet House, and crossed the small bridge over the stream at the rear of the weaving shed.
Diccon Linden was asleep on the floor across the doorway. He glanced up blearily at Cedric.
“Go back to sleep, boy,” he told him. Obediently, the apprentice put his head down on his arm again. He wasn’t going to defy a master, and sleep was precious. Dawn wasn’t that many hours away.
Cedric stumped to the wall and tore down the example cloth. He folded it into the front of his waistcoat and stalked back to the tavern.
The loud conversation that had begun in his absence cut off suddenly as he reentered the room. He walked to the table where he had been drinking and threw the woven cloth down upon it.
“There. Tha’s the mystery before ye.”
“By all the angels,” Michael said, his eyes wide with awe. He reached for it, but Matthew put a hand down on top of it.
“That shouldn’t have left the barn, Cedric.”
“Don’t care what you think. Do you like being turned into a piece of machinery?” Cedric countered. “Shall I treat you like a corncrake or a furnace bellows?”
“Give that to me! I’ll bring it back.”
“I won’t.”
The other weavers crowded around the table to examine it, even as Matthew tried to gather it up.
“This is a wonder. How’s it done?” Michael asked, turning it over to examine the back.
“With the little machines!” Ned said, ignoring the furious byplay going on over his head. “It made us a pot of money. Look! He slammed his pay down on the tabletop, and the others stared at the handful of coins. “Sold in London, it did, every yard snapped up like fresh pies, all gone in minutes.”
“God’s troth,” Thomas Gorsey said. He kept fingering the rose clusters over and over. “I’ve not seen anything like it in me life!”
“You all should have these little machines,” the stranger said.
“By heaven, you’re right,” Michael said. “I want these. How much to buy one? Where do you get them?”
“Who owns the one that this was made on?” Thomas asked.
“Sir Timothy de Beauchamp,” Ben said, hiding his smile.
Thomas waved a hand. “Ah, well, he’s a straight up gentleman, the squire. He heard my cousin’s case on some stolen cattle.”
Ben pressed his argument. “If he’s so good, he ought to share this new machine with all weavers.”
“Aye,” Michael said, with a frown. He peered at Cedric. “You say that a couple of Germans made the machines?”
“Yes, a man and a boy. But it’s the boy who knows how they work.”
“Cedric.” Matthew was still trying to make him see sense, but he paid no mind.
“A boy? Well, sometimes it’s the young ones who see how things go better than us older folks,” a white-haired man at the bar said.
“How do we get them?” Michael asked.
“Well, I couldn’t say,” Cedric said.
“You shouldn’t say,” Matthew interjected. “Cedric, enough is enough. The guild masters will discuss it in good time.”
Cedric raised his voice until he was shouting over his fellow master weaver. “There are six at work in our barn. But there are pieces of two more that never got put together.”
“Why should they not be made use of? Eh?” the stranger asked. “I know those who would pay a good sum for something like that.”
“Cedric,” Matthew said. There was now no trace of friendliness or patience in his voice. “Go home. Go now, or tomorrow I will bring a charge against you with the guild master. You’re talking out of turn, not just with regard to guild matters, but with our employer. You should be ashamed of yourself. Out, now!”
“You can’t tell me what t’do!” Cedric protested.
“I shouldn’t have to,” Matthew said. “You’re acting like a schoolchild, tattling on things you ought not to be talking about. Master Blackford said he would bring it up to others at the right time. Do you now outrank him? Eh? Do you?”
The thought of bringing charges finally got to Cedric. It was passing through his muddled brain that he should backtrack and stop talking. He sank into his seat and pulled his beer to him. Matthew gathered up the cloth and tucked it away. The others drifted back to their conversations, shooting speculative glances toward the two master weavers.
But Cedric’s new friend wasn’t letting it go. Ben put a hand on his arm and spoke in a confiding voice.
“My friend, you’ve interested them now. There’s money in this enterprise, more than you have in your purse, mayhap many times more! How long did it take you to earn today’s wages?”
“Well, not that long. It’s my due plus a bit of the profits from the squire, as I told ye.”
“But you could be paid a lot, if you can work out how to help these other gentlemen. Am I not right?” Ben turned to the others.
“That’s not for us to say.” Master Matthew was worried, but Cedric put him off with a laugh.
“The news would be spread sooner or later. Why should we not talk about it? It’s a triumph for the squire! First man in the world to bring this to market!”
Matthew shook his head. “He won’t see it that way.”
“And are you going to tell tales like a schoolboy? Let the opportunity go to waste?”
“Well…”
“Ah, there she comes!” came a cry from the front. Near the window, Gaynor gestured furiously to Cedric. Alas, there was no time to escape out through the kitchen.
The door slammed open, and a short, scrawny-faced woman with her graying hair tied up in a white linen scarf bore down upon them.
“Cedric Hollings, the angels will weep for you! Give me your purse. Do it now!”
“Go away, woman,” Cedric said, mournfully.
Dorcas Hollings pushed past Ben and the other drinkers at the table. With an expert hand she staved off his attempts to keep her from grabbing the pouch at his waist. “Aha!” She tore it off. “By heaven’s grace, I have gotten to it before you’ve managed to starve your children yet again! Come home now.”
Cedric’s nose and cheeks were red. “Nay, woman, I won’t!”
“Fine, then.” She pointed a skinny finger at his mug. “That’s yer last drink of the night. And you can sleep on the stoop with the dogs, then.” She stalked over to Gaynor and brandished the purse. “How much does that slug owe you, girl?”
Gaynor shook her head. “He’s had friends treat him this evening.”
“Well, then, that’s a wonder,” Dorcas said. “I’d never have thought he had friends.”
She stalked out of the tavern and slammed the big door behind her.
The other patrons laughed. Cedric didn’t raise his face again. He looked as though thoughts were circulating in his mind, but as much as Ben pressed, the weaver didn’t say another word. Once the mug was empty, he did go out into the night.
The stranger remained behind, listening and laughing to the conversations and byplay until Gaynor and her sister turned down the lamps, and the last of the weavers staggered out toward home.
* * *
Candle in hand, Ben went up to his room on the first floor of the inn. It was a quiet season, so he didn’t have to share the whitewashed chamber with anyone else. If he’d needed, he would have slipped a coin or so to the publican, but it wasn’t necessary.
From his modest case, he drew a flat locked box and set it on the table next to the broad bed. A few sheets of plain paper, an inkwell, a fistful of quills, a stick of wax, and a penknife lay within. He always burned the letters he received.
By the candle, he began a new letter.
“My lord, something interesting is going on here. Germans are involved. You were right to send me here. My men are available at two hours’ notice. I will keep my eyes open to any activity that might interest you.”
He folded the note in a complicated pattern and sealed it with a copious dollop of hot wax. He’d entrust it to any merchant traveling toward London in the next day or so.
So, the Churnet and Trent estate was bobbling on the brink of ruin until the Germans came in, and suddenly magical looms were set to make their fortune. No doubt more information of interest to his lordship was forthcoming in the next days or weeks.
Maybe another manor would become part of the crown’s holdings. And maybe a new and growing industry would fall into his lordship’s lap.