The Weaver

William de Mort rode his powerful black charger at the head of his caravan. His eyes fixed on a castle that dominated the lush green valley. The castle's tall rectangular keep sat secure behind a stone ring of imposing fortifications. Still, the young Baron felt unimpressed and slammed his inheritance. "To think I inherited this... No wonder they call father, Berty the bastard."

~

At the castle's gatehouse William dismounted his horse onto the cobblestones, where he was met by the castle's chamberlain. William looked down his nose at the skinny fair haired man. "And you are?"

"I am Peter, my Liege. The castle's chamberlain."

"So, you are supposedly my right-hand man?"

"I'm honoured to be so, my Liege." Peter did not possess the confidence to meet William's cold stare. "I run the castle on a day to day basis. If you want anything at anytime, my Liege, then just let me know."

"My father told me that you could be relied upon."

"Then Baron Bertrand was a man of good judgment."

"That may be so. But I reserve the right to make my own."

-

Walking up the damp and drafty spiral staircase, William grumbled to his chamberlain who followed closely behind. "I've been on this land less than a week, and I'm already missing Normandy." He heaved open the wooden door and stepped out onto the battlements of his castle. "It kills me to think that I'll have to spend my days here..." Letting out a sigh, William stared at the rain sodden and tumbledown settlement. "...in fucking England" The small town was bisected by a dark snaking river. Both halves of the settlement were joined by a small humpback bridge. "Such luck has made me believe that not just my father, but God himself, hates me."

"Cheer up, my Liege."

"Peter, it's cold. It stinks. And it never bloody stops raining. Don't even get me started on the people... they're as ugly as sin."

"My Liege, I'm English."

"And a good example of what I am on about." William turned to look out at the dreary thatched houses. He shook his head while his nose caught the scent of manure. "Stinks, the whole place stinks of pig shit."

"But my liege, at least it's quiet. These people will not cause you any problems."

"I'm not sure, living in such squalor might make them ... and men do things."

Peter's face lit up. "Well maybe you could engineer a town in your own image? Make it a more comfortable place to live. If the people prosper then your tax revenue will increase."

"Certainly something to think about."

"Excellent. I would suggest starting with a place of worship, one worthy of God's name. Closer to God, the townsfolk would be less likely to sin or stray."

"I was thinking less chapel, more fully equipped tournament field." William shook his head while he watched a group of peasants arguing over the result of a pig chase. "People who think catching greased up pigs is a sport... Well, they obviously need to be cultured. I'm going to introduce sword fighting, archery and jousting."

"My Liege, Pig chasing is a popular pastime."

"The only reason the men chase pigs, is that the hog is marginally less pig-like than the average local."

~

The wind blew through the grand banquet hall where William and Peter sat at the long oak table. A pack of hounds slept on a bed of straw in front of the open fire. William twirled his dagger on its stabbing point while Peter scrutinized the court's papers. Despite the fierce fire burning on the stone hearth, William felt a chill deep within his bones. He groaned as he stood from his chair. "Peter."

"My Liege?"

"Why is it so God damn cold in here?"

"It's England, my Liege."

"Don't remind me." William walked towards the arrow slit window where an icy wind billowed like an arctic gale. "How come there're no tapestries on these windows? Only a fool would leave them wide open like the legs of a whore."

"William... I'm sure your father mentioned last year's plague."

"He did."

"Well, it wiped out most of the skilled workers. Those who survived ran, never to return."

"Ah. I see."

"I've been searching the local guilds but found no weavers... None of note anyway. We need a mason and a carpenter too. I fear the castle will never be fully completed."

William glanced around at large stone walls which supported huge oak rafters. "Well, I need some colour as well as warmth. This constant greyness is crushing me. If I'm not under a grey sky, I'm looking at four grey walls."

"My Liege, Spring is only four months away."

"Four..? Four..?" William's foot twitched as he thought about kicking a dog. "Four fucking months?"

"Well Spring doesn't arrive until the last week in March. And that's being optimistic."

"Get me some tapestries. Immediately."

Peter let his quill rest in the pot of ink "My Liege..." He watched William shift the dogs with his boots so he could warm his hands near the licking flames of the open fire. "The best tapestries come from the continent. They're expensive to import."

"The English must have something to keep them warm... Well apart from getting drunk and then beating their spouses."

"We're not all raving alcoholics, my Liege."

William turned to face Peter. "Inform the stable boy to ready my horse, then bring me my cloak and sword."

"Where are you heading?"

"Going to see what one can purchase."

"On the continent?"

"No." William cracked his knuckles as if readying to punch Peter's clueless face. "I'm starting to think my father employed the village idiot."

"But I thought you would rather die than mix with the peasant folk?"

"I'm bored and depressed. Seeing people worse off than myself... well, I'm hoping it may raise my spirits."

Dressed in a wolf skin cloak, William rode his stallion through the dreary village. The buildings were tightly packed and mostly made from wattle and daub. Despite being confident that no villager would dare attack him, William's hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword.

Crossing the stone bridge onto the far bank, William noticed the once busy streets had emptied. The inhabitants kept out of his way. Young boys scurried down dark narrow side streets like rats, while mothers herded their children back into their simple houses. Those brave enough to remain bowed their heads in respect.

William saw something he wasn't expecting. Disbelieving, he wiped his gloved hand across his face. But his eyes hadn't deceived. "My God, she is beautiful." He smiled at the woman who shied away, then shouted, "My lady!" But the woman ran through an open door into a ramshackle workshop.

Climbing from his horse, William winced as his leather shoes squelched in the churned mud. Guiding his horse by its reins, he slipped and slid across the road until he made it to this wooden building in which the woman had disappeared. Peering through the open window he raised a pleased smile. Inside the dimly lit room a thick-set woman dressed in a shawl sat at a bench, weaving a pair of trousers. But his eyes looked beyond the woman, focusing on the long tapestry which hung from a vertical loom. "Excuse me." The woman first appeared frozen in shock. She then climbed from the bench before curtsying. He asked, "Is this your workshop?" The woman's arm trembled as it pointed to a room towards the rear of building.

"I am only employed. Beatrice is the head weaver, my Liege."

"Then I want to see Beatrice."

A pretty face peaked around the wooden door frame. Quietly as a harvest mouse, she muttered, "I'm Beatrice."

William recognised her as the woman he had seen on the street. Her eyes were emerald green and he swore they sparkled like those of witches cat. He then walked to the entrance and stepped into the workshop. He dryly smiled as the young woman cautiously entered into the room before curtsying. "You're too young to be the proprietor."

"It was my parents' business. But the plague snatched them. I'm in sole charge now."

"Not your husband?"

Beatrice shook her head while focusing on her mud covered clogs. "The plague also took Herbert, my husband. We had been married only six weeks."

"My sympathy, madam."

"I'm not the only one who lost, my Liege. Everyone has been touched by the plague."

"Indeed, I hear these lands were ravaged by the plague. My chamberlain told me it wiped out half the village." William felt awkward as he didn't know what else to say. "Well, your luck is about to change."

"My Liege?"

William stepped up to the vertical loom causing the two women to disperse like timid street dogs. His eyes lapped up the elegant floral patterns, which were warmly coloured with reds and ambers. Lightly brushing his fingers along the fabric, he nodded with satisfaction. "Fine work, I may be interested. However, I'm confused. "

"My... My Liege?"

"Who could possibly afford such work in these impoverished lands?"

"Let me explain. We... we mainly produce simple garments for the locals." Drunk on a concoction of pride and excitement, Beatrice's tongue tripped over her words. "But... but every so often the Abbey will order a tapestry. If we're lucky they'll sometimes order three or four at a time."

"How come you have kept your skills from me? I could easily view this as treason?"

"Forgive me, but I have not. Your chamberlain turned me away."

"Peter!" William thumped his clenched fist against the wooden wall "That useless shit wouldn't know a tapestry if I beat him around the head with one." Flexing his aching fingers, he shook his head while walking towards the door. "Girls... consider yourself employed." He glanced over his shoulder towards Beatrice. "Report to the guardhouse at sunrise... you have a castle to decorate."

"Forgive me, my Liege. But you're... you're not jesting us?"

"I'm a Norman... I don't have a sense of humour. Now, I'm off to beat seven shades of brown out of my useless chamberlain. Good day to you."

Once William had left, the workshop remained in silence for a few moments. Beatrice listened to the hooves of the Baron's horse until they all but disappeared. She then screamed, "What the hell just happened?" Still screaming, she grabbed hold of her faithful weaver. "Matilda... was I dreaming? Tell me I wasn't."

"No, he was here. I witnessed him, dressed in his fine clothes and smelling of rose water."

"What are we going to do? I mean... he asked us to decorate his castle, did he not?"

"I've never been spoken to by a Norman before."

Beatrice sat on the bench seat, open-mouthed. "He spoke in English, and he's ravishingly handsome too... Baron Bertrand was as ugly as a corpse. But this William, he's something else."

"Beatrice, don't get carried away. His ancestors slaughtered ours and took all their land. He and his kind now tax us up to our eyeballs, keeping us locked in poverty. He is no better than any other Norman."

"I'm not stupid, Matilda." Beatrice stretched out her long sleek legs, scraping her clogs across the wooden floorboards. She placed her hands on her cloth covered knees and stared at Matilda. "But did he, or did he not, just offer us business? Lots of business."

"He did that indeed. But you know as well as I do... never trust a Norman. Not even a dead one."

As always, hoping for an an author to help me further develop this story. Plus if you dig this story please LIKE, COMMENT and share with friends. Interaction keeps me going