The Tanner’s Son by Pamela Kavanagh

What could Will and Jane do to bring their unruly boy Nicholas to heel?

SPRING was almost here and Nicholas Leche was glad of it. The long, dreary weeks between the celebrations of the festive season and the start of the carnivals, flat racing, festivals and other delights of the city had seemed endless this time.

With the winter having been relatively mild, the citizens of Chester had even been deprived of the skating and merrymaking that would normally have taken place on the frozen river and its banks during these otherwise dead months of the year.

For Nicholas it had felt like nothing but work in the office of Hatton and Leche Fine Leatherware Company, the family business from which he had occasionally managed to escape for a night of carousing with the rest of the town’s youth.

But today the March wind had a lighter feel to it, frisking across the river meadows bringing grassy scents that freshened the putrid city air as Nicholas headed for the Old Dee Bridge and Handbridge, where his grandmother Constance lived.

He cut a flamboyant figure in his kingfisher slashed with russet, his feathered cap and boots of best well-polished brown leather.

At the foot of the bridge an old crone of a flower seller had set up her wares in wide-based wicker trugs and Nicholas stopped to peruse the selection of spring blooms on offer.

He settled for a nosegay of primroses, beloved by all, and his adored if testy grandparent was no exception.

“Every blessing, mother,” he bid the woman, tossing her a coin.

“And to you, young sir,” the flower seller replied.

He fetched her a wink and her cackle of response followed him as he walked on, the sweet scent of the primroses wafting.

Church bells rang out, summoning worshippers to prayer, but even on the Sabbath the bridge that formed the southern entry into Chester thronged with foot and horse-drawn traffic, and Nicholas was mindful to keep close to the parapet to avoid being trampled in the fray.

Beneath him, the Dee was in full spate after the rains of winter and raged between the ancient stone bulwarks of the bridge.

Leaving behind the roofs, spires and steeples of the town within its protecting city walls, Nicholas stepped off the bridge and came to the quieter environs of Handbridge.

Five minutes later he was entering the front gate of his grandmother’s plain red-brick house off the main street.

Buds were fat on the lilacs in the garden and a blackbird fluted a liquid phrase of notes in the pear tree by the wall of the house.

Constance Hatton had seen him coming and the front door opened immediately to his knock.

“Grandmother. Goodmorrow to you.” He whipped the primroses from behind his back and presented them to her with a courtly bow. “For you.”

A glimmer of pleasure crossed Constance’s stern face, which was probably all she would allow. “You spoil me, grandson.” “Ah, but you are worth it!”

“That’s my Nicholas. Ever the charmer.”

“I know,” Nicholas said, and received a faint smile of response.

Constance led him into the parlour, where a fire of sea coals burned brightly and surfaces shone with beeswax, and bid him be seated.

Nicholas thoughtfully avoided the cushioned chair that had been occupied by his grandmother’s friend and companion, Ann Lovett, who had passed on several months ago and whom, he suspected, his grandmother missed more than she would say.

He chose instead a high-backed settle against the wall.

Constance took her usual seat, a straight-backed, comfortless carved wooden chair which she occupied with great dignity, her back ramrod straight, her sombre skirts rustling.

It seemed to Nicholas that everything about his grandmother was grey. Eyes, hair, style of dress.

Constance was of the Puritan persuasion and the drabness of her appearance was relieved only by a starched white apron devoid of embellishment and a plain white linen cap over her thick swathes of iron-grey hair.

She rang a small brass bell on the table at her elbow to summon the maid for refreshments, and fixed Nicholas with her uncompromising stare. “Well, boy? What news?” “Mother sends her love.” It being Sunday and conscious of his grandmother’s strict adherence to the ruling of the Church, Nicholas forbore to mention that his mother was occupied in the office.

A necessary procedure due, he was reluctant to acknowledge, to his having abandoned the paperwork he was supposed to have been dealing with for the more interesting purpose of sketching a design for the ornamental gold tooling on a recent order for a set of leather-bound books.

Had it not been for the client’s approval of the idea, Nicholas might have been in deeper trouble than he already was.

As things stood, he had endured a severe reprimanding from his father and a command to join his mother in the office later in the day, instead of taking a leisurely row on the river with Tom Kettlewell as planned.

“You frown, Nicholas. I know that look. What have you been up to now?” Constance asked.

“Mm? Oh, nothing to worry yourself about, Grandmother. I’ve been rather remiss, engrossed in my sketchbook when there were other matters needing attending to.”

“And earned yourself a ticking off in the process, I do not doubt. Boy, will you never learn?”

“I shouldn’t think so, no.” He gave her his most winning smile and she tutted at him indulgently.

Nicholas knew he could always parry the disapproval of their harridan of a grandparent, while his young brother Edmund paled in her presence and little Nanette hid her face in her hands.

The maid came in with a tray of claret in a silver flagon, goblets and small sweet comfits on a pewter platter, which she set down on the low table.

She made to pour the claret but Constance waved her away.

“Leave it, Biddie. I shall attend to it myself. You might put these primroses in water. Use the glass bowl and bring them back in here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The maid collected the flowers, dipped a curtsey and, casting Nicholas a coquettish look under her lashes, was rewarded with a wink and left blushing.

Constance poured the beverage.

“How is your sister?” “Oh, much the same.” Nicholas’s expression softened. If anything, he cherished his frail sibling even more than the elderly woman who sat opposite.

Nanette had been born to their parents when all hope of further family had diminished.

She was a fairy child who would never grow to be wed and have children of her own, but whose delicate face within a halo of soft white-gold curls Nicholas thought the most beautiful sight ever.

“Does she read the book of prayer I gave her for the twelfth year of her birth?”

“We read it together,” Nicholas said. “She likes the illustrated text.”

“The bright colours. Ah, me!” Constance gave a little sigh. “It is God’s will. We must be thankful that she clings on to life.” “Amen to that.” Constance nibbled one of the almond comfits to which she was partial.

“And Edmund? He is not a regular caller here.”

“Edmund is engrossed in the business,” Nicholas said in all truth.

“He relishes every aspect of it. Even enjoys visiting the tanning pits.” He grimaced. “The stink of them turns my stomach!”

“You always were squeamish,” Constance said, and washed down the comfit with a sip of claret.

“So Jessica tells me. She likes to tease about it.”

“Does she? I would not have thought that prim little miss had an ounce of tease in her!”

Nicholas laughed and helped himself to more claret. Jessica Amery was his betrothed.

She was the daughter of Elijah Amery, a prominent member of the Guild of Tanners. It was an arranged match from childhood.

“Jessica has her moments,” he said in defence of the young woman he knew he neglected disgracefully. Constance shrugged. “That one is not for you, boy. You need a lass with more fire, who will give you a run for your money.”

“In faith, I should enjoy that, Grandmother,” Nicholas said with another laugh.

He did not want to think about the proposed marriage. It was an issue he avoided at all cost.

Aware of the passage of time, Nicholas enquired if anything required doing in the house or garden and, learning there was nothing, said he must take his leave.

Shortly afterwards he was heading back towards home. At a street corner a pedlar was selling gaudily clad mommets and Nicholas paused to buy one for his sister.

She had a collection of the crudely carved figurines and crooned to them in her own strange tongue.

“I’ll take the one in scarlet, good sir.” Nanette would love it.

He found a coin in payment and continued on

“Nicholas gets more feckless by the day!”

his way, wondering if his father had recovered from his ill-temper.

Nicholas hoped so. Will Leche in a sour mood clouded the atmosphere of the entire house.

“By all the saints, wife!” Will exclaimed furiously.

“Nicholas gets more feckless by the day. It is not to be tolerated.

“If I have to speak to him once more on the matter of work, I vow I shall not be responsible for my actions!”

He brushed frustrated fingers through his crop of greying brown curls and Jane, sighing, rose from the office desk and went to her irate spouse’s side.

“My love. Nicholas is young. Can you not remember how it was yourself at his age?”

“I remember full well. When I was in my early twenties I was travelling the length of the country, tackling any job that would earn me a crust.”

“Whereas our son has been handed his living on a plate. There is a difference.

“Though I am not making excuses for him. His attitude to work is reprehensible.”

“He is spoiled. We have your mother to thank for that.”

Jane’s still youthful face grew regretful.

“Nay, husband. I

fear we are all to blame there.”

“Aye, perhaps you are right.” Will took his wife in his arms and kissed her.

“There. That is to say sorry for being so boorish.”

“You are not wrong to be infuriated by our son. But I worry when you get so riled. It cannot be good for you.”

“I shall survive. It is Nicholas who may not if he does not change his ways.

“We have indulged him too much. We knew better with Edmund; he never gives us cause for concern.”

Quiet, unremarkable Edmund. The words hung unspoken between them.

“And Nanette?” Jane said.

Will smiled, a touch sadly.

“Ah, the sweet creature. She does not ail?”

Always, around the fragile presence of their youngest, hovered the threat that something would snatch her from them, and Jane gave her husband a look of reassurance.

“No, Nanette does not ail. We have Margery to thank for that.”

Jane’s closest friend, who once worked as housemaid for the family, was a herbalist of some repute and a Seer – though in these difficult times, the latter was not broadcast.

“I intended visiting Margery today but the paperwork is taking longer than expected to sort out.”

“Which brings us back to Nicholas.

“If he continues as he is doing he will make no good at all, not for himself and certainly not as head of the firm when the day comes.

“What’s to be done about him, Jane?”

Jane gently disengaged herself from her husband’s embrace.

“I’m not sure. Mother thinks he will grow out of his wild ways.

“But then she will not hear a word against Nicholas. She falls back on outlining his good points.” “Which are?”

“His kindness to herself, for one. He cannot do enough for her and he visits often, which means a lot to Mother. He shows the same regard for Nanette.

“It is Nicholas who encourages her to speak a few words. He seems able to communicate with her in a way others, including myself, cannot.

“And he is talented. His flair for design is outstanding.”

“Aye, I shall not argue with any of that. It is the rest that irks me. What about Jessica? Can she not make him see the error of his ways?”

“I doubt it. Jessica has been raised to be meek and subservient. I would not care to broach the subject with her.

“She is already in awe of him. I would not want to make matters harder for her.”

“Then happen wedlock is the answer for both of them. We must set a date. A wife, responsibility. That should settle Nicholas down.”

“You think so?”

“I know it. It did for me, did it not?”

“Eventually,” Jane said repressively.

The office door opened to admit the Leches’ second son, Edmund.

Where Nicholas had his sire’s height, breadth and good looks, Edmund favoured his maternal line but lacked the classic bone structure that gave Jane, and her late father, an air of dignity and youthfulness.

Slight of stature and of medium height, with waving red-gold hair and intelligent green eyes, Edmund’s clean-shaven face was serious and ordinary.

Having grown up in his more exuberant brother’s shadow, he appeared to have accepted the fact that Nicholas would inherit the business, and was learning the ropes of his own future position as manager of Hatton and Leche Fine Leatherware Company with studied calm.

Edmund brought with him a flavour of the blustery outdoors: fresh air, horses and leather.

“Mother, Father, I have been looking for you. I didn’t expect to find you at work. Is everything all right?”

Will scowled.

“As right as it can be with your brother in charge of the paperwork!”

“Will!” Jane cast her spouse a warning look.

She was aware of the tensions that arose within the family and did her best to overcome them. She gave her son a smile.

“Did you have an enjoyable ride, Edmund?”

“I did. Danby went well. We had a fine canter on the meadows. Jessica was there on her mare.”

“Was she? Did you race?” Will asked.

“Nay, Father. She was having trouble with her saddle girth. I attended to it for her and we spoke for a while, that is all.” Edmund paused. “Martha Renfrew had a request as I came through the kitchen. She says to tell you that the noontide meal is ready. It will keep if you are occupied.”

Edmund was heading through the warren of a house, which comprised business and living quarters under one roof and stood on one of a series of elevated walkways known as Eastgate Row, when he came across Nicholas.

“Ho there, brother,” Edmund said cordially.

“Edmund. You look troubled.”

“I have just come from the office. Mother and Father were there and the air was not exactly genial.”

“No, it wouldn’t be. My fault. I am in trouble again for slacking my duties.”

“Why so? You were hard at work at your desk yesterday when I called in.”

Nicholas gave his brother a grin.

“Aye, though not at the right thing. It was a small matter of design taking priority. It is of no consequence.

“I’ve been given a good rousting for my pains but Father is like a dog with a bone. He will keep on gnawing.” He shrugged.

“Have you been out on the new horse?”

“Aye. Jessica was riding on the meadows. She wanted to know where you were.”

“I told her I was going to see Grandmother.”

“Yes, she recalled it afterwards.”

Not for the first time that day, Edmund was struck by how casual his brother was towards his betrothed.

Why hadn’t Nicholas saddled his gelding and ridden to Handbridge instead of walking, and arranged to meet Jessica afterwards for a gallop?

It seemed the obvious thing to do, and he railed at the fates that smiled kindly at one brother and dismissed the other.

“Never fear, Edmund. Your day will come.”

Margery Denny’s words rose unbidden in his mind. Some weeks ago he had called at her cottage on a mission for their mother.

They had been chatting together when Aunt Margery’s eyes had suddenly taken on that certain inward gleam, leeching them of all colour, which suggested a seeing.

He had been about to ask her what she meant when a knock had come on her door and the moment was lost.

He and Nicholas walked on along the final dim passageway and came to the small parlour, a wood-panelled chamber comfortably furnished with cushioned chairs and bright tapestries.

The single small casement looked out over the long garden.

There was a window seat and Nanette sat here, talking to a row of small, colourful wooden figurines.

She looked up when they entered the room and Edmund saw, with an unworthy spurt of envy, how her eyes brightened as they beheld Nicholas.

A smile of extraordinary beauty touched her face and she held out her arms. “Nicholas?”

“Hey ho, sweeting, how is my best little maid today?”

In a few energetic bounds Nicholas crossed the floor to scoop her up into his arms and twirl her

round until her laughter filled every corner of the room.

Gently, he sat her down again and, fishing for the toy in his doublet pocket, he hid it behind his back.

“Tell me, did you eat every morsel of your manchet bread and milk this morning?”

She nodded solemnly, her green eyes dancing.

“Then you shall have this.” Nicholas whisked the mommet from behind his back and gave it his sister.

“Another small person for your family. See her scarlet gown and cape.

“She is the grandest yet. We shall have to think what to call her.

“Let me see, now. Shall it be Daffodil?”

“No!”

“No, perhaps not. How about Bluebell?” Nanette shook her head. “Ah, I have it. Poppy!” She gave him a beaming smile of assent and, cradling the toy, began to sing to it in a high, sweet voice that was almost unearthly and sent shivers down Edmund’s spine.

“See, our sister is not as slow as some would have it,” Nicholas said aside to him. “She knows her colours and flowers.”

“That is so,” Edmund said gently, and his heart went out to the sister who would never be like others.

“Martha says the meal is ready. I must go and change,” he went on.

He left the room and headed for the narrow staircase that would take him to his bedchamber.

His taste in dress was more subdued than that of his sire and brother.

From his bedchamber coffer he selected a winecoloured doublet slashed with dull gold, matching hose and a modest neck ruff.

Changing quickly out of his riding clothes, his thoughts were of Jessica Amery and their chance encounter on the river meadows.

She had managed to dismount by a fallen tree and was struggling to tighten the girth of her bay mare’s saddle.

The relieved smile on her face when he had ridden up had brought an answering smile from him.

“Edmund! How pleased I am to see you. My saddle was slipping. I have tightened the girth a notch but it still feels loose.” “Here, let me.”

He had dealt with the problem and boosted her back into the saddle.

She had then suggested that they rode along together and they had set off, walking the horses quietly by the side of the river.

“I thought I might see Nicholas here this morning,” Jessica said.

“He was going to see Grandmother. I think he went out earlier to give Tarquin some exercise.”

“Ah, yes. How remiss of me. He did say. Of course he did.”

Pale March sunlight struck off the emerald of the betrothal ring on her finger, and Edmund thought what little regard his brother showed for the young woman who was to be his wife.

Jessica was no beauty, but there was something about her demure good nature and quiet smile that was appealing.

Her light-brown hair and candid blue eyes were pleasing enough and her voice had a soothing quality that any man would be pleased to converse with at his hearthside.

Any man, it seemed, but Nicholas.

“You have a new mount, I see,” Jessica said.

Edmund looked at her, unaccountably heartened that she had noticed.

“Why, yes. Jester was old and Father bought me Danby from the dealer. He seems an amicable fellow.”

Edmund gave the horse’s undistinguished strawberryroan neck a couple of affectionate claps.

“Nothing remarkable about him but good enough for me.”

Jessica met his gaze. “Edmund, you belittle yourself. Have you always been thus?”

“What? In truth, I cannot say. Does it matter?

Nicholas is the jewel in our crown and Nanette the treasured gem.”

“Ah, Nanette. She keeps well?”

“She seems to, yes. Aunt Margery sees to that.

“You will know of Goodwife Denny? She lives in one of the cottages off the Northgate.

“She is not an aunt by blood but she is a great friend of Mother’s and we think of her as a relative.”

“Yes, Nicholas has told me. Goodwife Denny is a remarkably skilled lady and a talented crafter, I believe,” Jessica added in lowered tones.

It never did to voice the subject aloud.

Even here in the open reaches of the meadows there were people abroad and ears could be flapping.

Anything suggestive of the dark arts was an offence punishable by public hanging.

Edmund shuddered at the thought.

“You did not answer my question,” Jessica said.

“I think it matters that you give yourself credit for what you are and for the role you play in your parents’ firm.”

In a rare gesture of playfulness he sketched a bow of acknowledgement from the saddle and they both chuckled.

For Edmund it was a moment of wonderful sweetness.

The sun seemed suddenly brighter, the birdsong more joyful, and even Danby’s plodding step felt oddly lithesome as they hacked together along the sward.

The sensation of happiness was with Edmund now as he ran a comb through his hair, checked his appearance in the looking glass and set off down the stairs for the dining-room.

The fresh air had given him an appetite. He wondered what Martha had served for the midday meal.

In the kitchen, cookhousekeeper Martha Renfrew was giving the housemaid a lesson in bread-making.

“Eight ounces exactly. That’s what a manchet loaf should weigh when it goes into the oven and comes out.

“It must be flat and white, with a soft crumb and a crisp crust. Mind me, Jenny?”

“Yes’m,” Jenny Pole replied.

A country girl of around sixteen years – being one of a large family, she was uncertain of her exact age – she had worked here a mere three weeks and was still finding her way.

She tucked a strand of sandy hair back under her frilled muslin cap and tried to concentrate, her freckled face crinkling up with effort.

“At home, us allus had mansel bread.

“Tes made from second millings of wheat and rye an’ whatever else comes cheap.

“‘Twere hard on the teeth and the belly. This bread is fit for a queen.”

Martha’s ample proportions seemed to swell all the more under the girl’s praise.

“Though I say it myself, I do have a light hand with bread and pastry. Sponges, too.

“Your predecessor who left to wed the butcher’s son was less than useless in the kitchen.

“Heaven help her poor husband. He’ll not know a decent meal from now on.”

“Happen he’ll nip home to his mam for a bite to eat,” Rolf Butts put in from where he sat by the range, tucking into a full plate of cold beef and apple chutney.

Rolf was the gardener and stableman.

At his side, his cheeks bulging as he bolted down his food, sat general odd-job lad Dickon Huxley.

Dickon stretched his legs to the blaze and brushed back his flopping brown hair.

“Any more vi’tuals?” he asked, holding out an empty plate.

“Any more victuals, what?” Martha enquired.

“Any more vi’tuals ’cause my belly’s tellin’ me my throat’s been cut.”

Dickon’s eyes twinkled merrily and Jenny caught his look and giggled.

“Any more cheek from you and you can get off outside and finish mucking out the stalls,” Rolf told the lad.

“Man and boy I’ve been here, and if I’d spoken to my betters like that, Mester Perivale, who was gardener here when I was your age, would have landed me a clip round the ear!”

At the mention of the previous gardener’s name, Martha sighed.

“Dearie me, Perivale’s been gone a few years now and it only seems like yesterday.

“He never said much but when he did speak it were worth listening to.

“And as for you, my lad . . .” She rounded fiercely on the lanky youth at the hearth.

“Please and thank you would not come amiss in my kitchen! Mind me?”

“Aye, ma’am. And I’ll thank you kindly for another slice o’ boiled beef, if you please.”

Her chins wobbling, Martha saw to the request, delivering the lad a playful cuff for his cheek.

At that moment, the bell rang for pudding to be served.

“Jenny, there’s apple tart and whipped Chantilly cream on the tray. Take it to the dining-room and mind you don’t drop it.

“Stack the dirty dishes properly before you serve the pudding.” “Yes’m.”

“More cider, Rolf?” Martha held out the tall pitcher temptingly.

“Aye,” Rolf said. “If you please.”

She refilled his tankard and poured herself a measure in a large white cup, seating her bulk down by the fire to drink it.

Sunday afternoon stretched ahead, all hers. She might take a nap, and happen later Margery Denny might pay a visit.

They would cut the plum cake she had made and chat. Nice, that’d be.

In the dining-room a stony silence was observed while the maidservant cleared the table, trying not to make a clatter.

It struck Jenny that the master was glowering at young Master Nicholas

– oh, how she did relish his wicked winks and ready smiles, not that they were in evidence right now.

He was looking as if he’d swallowed a wasp and Master Edmund – serious, he was – was casting glances of sympathy in his brother’s direction.

Little Miss Nanette was picking daintily at the yet unfinished meat on her plate.

“Thank you, Jenny. You may leave us,” the mistress said.

“Yes’m.” The maidservant dipped a curtsey and, eyes lowered, picked up the heavy tray and left, giving a nod of thanks to Master Nicholas, who had jumped up to hold the door for her.

“Well?” Will said, once the girl had gone. “Speak out, Nicholas.

“You and Jessica Amery have been betrothed these five years now. It is high time a date was set.

“Are you in agreement with that?”

Vaguely, Nicholas was aware of Edmund pushing aside his helping of Martha’s excellent apple tart and cream, as if it tasted suddenly of sawdust.

Wedlock stood for responsibilities, steadfastness, vows taken in a place of worship that must be kept at all cost.

He was fond of Jessica. But did he love her? Did he think enough of her to warrant forfeiting the life of a single man, the revelry and gaming with friends, the sheer joy of living?

Did he want to spend the rest of his life in her company?

In truth he did not know.

To be continued.