The Tailor

The Tailor Part 5

The Tailor

Morning mass had been uneventful, they were required to go now, a fine was theirs if they were late or did not attend. It was lucky there was no test to see if you paid attention to the service, for she was certain they were not alone in their habitual responses. Dipping their heads, repeating empty words, chanting required responses in time with the rest of the congregation, all joy spent. 

When her parents still lived, they attended church on Sundays and high days, went to confession once a month, said their prays at home. Never though, did they pay the quarterly tithe. Her father held that they were not owned by the bishops and, as a priest had yet come and offered to work for free for him, he would return the favour.

But that was long ago when sense reigned and the guilds held sway. A citizen could expect a fair hearing and mostly honest dealing from the elders and guildmasters. 

Now the bishops owned the city and all its citizens, the guildhalls were empty. The law was the Church and the Church was the law. All attended daily mass, all paid the tithe, all lived in the long shadow of the bishop's Iron Guard who watched, seeing to it that the new ordinances be kept.

The world was as grey as the uniforms that surrounded them.

Yet she would not allow their small joys to be stolen, there was still quince jam in the store cupboard, some spiced sausage and bean stew in the pot and half a loaf of good bread for dinner.

She and the boy would walk to the old physic garden before they returned home to work. The goodwives were forbidden to grow and tend their plots now, lest they brew spells from the herbs they cultivated. No longer could a wife steep liquorice and comfrey for her husband's sore belly, a priest must be called and he would minister, usually with prayer, holy water and the confession of sins.

The garden though, was still a place to take the air, gentlemen and their ladies would still walk there, though not to promenade and flirt as they used to, nor did children run and play games by the trees, edicts forbade such things.

 They had been slyly harvesting willow bark over the last week, there was almost sufficient in the jar to last the year

'Are your pockets empty?' she asked the boy.

He nodded and grinned, it was his favourite game to stand watch as she slipped her knife under the bark, easing off short curls till both their pockets were filled. He was a good watchman, they had a code, when soldiers came near, he would cough, if it were a nosey posy, he would pretend to sneeze. This and whitling were his favourite things in the world, well almost, ginger pudding with the thick top of the milk poured on was his most favourite, and the stories his aunt told him while he sat wrapped in a quilt of a winters evening, he liked them too.

Positioning himself on the risen tree root, he played with the long blades of grass, making whistles and the like, all the time keeping a wary eye on the grandly turned-out officers, gentlemen and ladies. Holding her Bible in one hand at the pretence of study, the little tailor scored the trunk of bowed willow with the hidden hand.

It was a pleasant morning, the spring sun flickered through the leaves, dappling their quiet corner prettily. At any other time she would have thought it a soothing place to sit, but pulling the slivers of bark free could be painful work, splinters caught beneath nails, speared the fine skin of her fingers. All the while minding if they were observed about their unlawful business. Still, the boy's chest had been weak last winter, she needed the willow bark to mix into a tincture with lemon and honey to ease it. There was little choice, winter must be prepared for.

When her pockets were full, she passed a cupped handful to the boy to fill his, in no time they would be done, off home and safe.

The boy coughed, sneezed and pushed her hand away. Looking up she saw the adjutant, two lieutenants she knew (bad payers both) and a tall officer, straight backed, his uniform as plain as she had ever seen. Only the star above his breast and the deference of the others told that he was the captain-general of the city.

The highest rank in the Guard.

A man to be feared more than any other.

He stood at the gate arch, removed his cap, tucking it under his arm, ran a smoothing palm across his hair and looked about him.

There was no need to caution the boy, he knew well enough to stay low and unnoticed. She thought to slide her knife between the pages of her Bible, but instead worked it beneath a clump of grass. It would mean prison to be caught armed near such high and mighty Guardsmen. She knew they were safe enough not to attract the attention, a lowly worker woman and a child should hold no interest for such exalted military men, still, it was always best to know when to bow and scrape. But, till the group moved off they could only sit and wait. The little tailor bit at her lip, adjusted her spectacles and feigned deep interest in Leviticus eight.

On reaching "And Moses sprinkled the blood all around the altar. Then he took the fat and the fat tail, all the fat that was on the entrails, the fatty lobe attached to the liver..." she caught the scent of a cigar close by. Cautiously shading her eyes, she looked up, and up. The captain-general stood, arms behind his back looking down, he inclined his head to the side and spoke with careful politeness.

'How satisfying to see honest tradesfolk taking their ease, I trust you are come from mass?' 

A show of respect being required, the boy and the tailor stood, bowing awkwardly. Dusting off her skirts, she thought how she had never seen a man as tall as this, he was taller even than the Postman, and a face just as stern.

'Yes highness, at the cathedral.' She knew he was no 'highness' but she also knew he was a man and would take pleasure from the silly blandishment.

he did, and smiling shook his head. 'No child, a simple 'sir' is sufficient.' The Adjutant leaned in and spoke quietly to his superior, who nodded and addressed her again. 'You have a fine way with a needle I hear?'

'I am a tailor...sir.' She said, eyes downcast, hoping the perfunctory gesture of greeting poor 'honest tradesfolk' would end and they might flee. To be noticed was not a good thing.

'The boy is not yours I think.'

It was not a question and took her by surprise, she stumbled, answering, 'I am his aunt...sir.'

'Are you?' his look clearly said he did not believe her.

The boy stepped closer and took her hand, they held tight.

After all this time, danger was here.