Stygmarsh Chapter 2. The Mayfair

Chapter 2. The Mayfair


         The town of Tawfen was a wonder for young Manon. He had never seen so many houses of stone and brick nor so many carts and horses and people. It was like a hundred villages all cramped together. No books or tales could quite have prepared him for the sights, sounds and smells of such a multitude. He gawped with mouth open as their small wagon jogged into the field at the southern edge, where the great business of stalls and tents being erected for the fair on the following day was underway. Across the Fairfield there was a tall grass-covered mound and just below that a group of rough-looking men, yelling back and forth to each other from colourful wagons, were putting up the largest tent he had ever seen.
“Catching flies?” Jed laughed at the look on his face. “Ne’er mind all that, get out of that clobber an’ help us get the stall up.”
Jed pulled up strategically near the Reedcutters tavern and was hailed by Jon Fairman, an old friend, who directed them to their pitch amid the haloo! of old friends, and not a few curses and sideways spits as well. Jed introduced ‘his lad, Manon’ and they had soon put up poles and spread an awning from the wagon as a makeshift roof. They set up a counter of crates and a board which had the words ‘Haffedyke’s Marsh Ware’ carefully painted on it in blue lettering. Then they sorted out the boxes and bags filled with of all manner of second hand shoes, tunics and trews, sharpened knives, razors, twines and ropes, and a hundred assorted bits and pieces all fixed and polished.
“Mind the stuff, lad. I’ll be in the Cutters to settle the business end o’ things. Mebee I’ll get ‘ee a jug laters,” Jed winked.

         Manon found that Jed was well known to the smattering of marsh tinkers and many of the other traders that were pitched about this corner of the field and several came over with a good word and welcome. An old lady in bright red skirts even brought him a portion of mutton pie, tousled his hair, which he found irritating, and asked after Milly. His chores were finally done when there was room in the wagon to unfurl their leather sleeping bags and Manon snapped the little locks on the crates closed, secured the wagon and took the keys to the pub. In the smoky atmosphere that stung his eyes, Manon found Jed in full flow with his tales, for he had the gabble gift many said. He introduced Manon to a dozen of his cronies who nodded or raised their ale jacks or clapped his back and a foaming pint of Tawfen Tawny Ale was put in his hand.
         The men of Tawfen were proud of their fair. It was a tradition that had its root in the distant past when the field had seen a desperate battle between marsh Goblin raiders and the men of the hall of Amery Tawfen. The men of Tawfen had repelled the raiders and saved the kingdom, and a grateful Steward of Ember had granted it town status and a market and a fair into perpetuity. Whatever the truth of the matter, the Tawfenners were only too pleased to relate the long tale, with embellishments of the hero of the hour, “A great bear of a man, Amery was, fully seven feet high!” and another dozen interruptions before it was done and Manon was exhilaratingly drunk.

         When he awoke next morning, the fair had already begun and his head felt like Amery Tawfen had been punching it. Jed was busy selling his gear and seemed happy enough, so Manon wandered through the crowds to the stream and doused himself before searching for breakfast. He found himself at the other end of the Fairfield where wicker butts had been placed near the mound for an archery competition and where the large tent canvas proudly announced ‘Jon Jiggs’s Circus of Marvelous Marsh Sights’. It was a tuppence tin to enter the big tent, but a further copper pound to go beyond the oddities of stuffed birds and snakes to see ‘The Dragon Babes from the Marsh’. He paid the amount and was admitted to a tent at the back housing a covered wagon. A small crowd had already gathered and a red suited and painted Mr Jiggs himself, fielding a long whip, threw back the tarpaulin to reveal the sight within. And in a metal cage built onto a flat wagon was a strange sight indeed. There were two scaly lizard-like creatures, each maybe three and a half feet high with small jaws. They lay curled on the cage floor, bare except for two huge broken eggshells, looking wretched. The circus master seemed angry and shouted that they would now ‘walk like a man’ cracking his whip loudly. Suddenly, with an almost human whelp, the creatures jumped up, and danced about the wagon before grabbing the cage bars with webbed hands of four fingers, forked tongues flicking over their pointed teeth. The crowd backed off with gasps at this display, as the circus master assured them in booming tones that they were in no danger as the cage was secure, and the dragons were too young to breathe the fire ‘that would consume whole houses’. Nevertheless several women were feeling faint and had to be taken out. Whilst the circus master simpered and bowed, Manon took a peek under the wagon behind the canvas skirt, and saw that there was a brazier of red hot coal below it. He realised the metal base of the cage was being warmed from underneath by the coals to burn the poor creatures’ feet.
“Oi! Leave a-be!” a hairy bare-chested man behind the wagon suddenly growled, and Manon quickly dropped the canvas and left the tents, thoroughly disgusted by the cruelty. He had lost the taste for the jugglers and wire balancers after that and went back to help Jed.

         Jed was less than sympathetic when he told him of Mr Jiggs.
“Don’t mess wiv ‘em, son,” he warned, “Them’s Henetians. Carry knives.”

         The Fair was busy. Too busy for the likes of Tomas Rickie. There was hardly a quiet corner to survey the crowd. An apple pinched here, a pie there, but these tinker folk looked out for their own, and even when ones’ back was turned, another would, as often as not, be watching the goods. By the mid afternoon Tricky had only robbed one trader properly, and that only because the silly fellow had been asleep and half baked by a cyder jug. Fourpence! It would be the fields again tonight if things didn’t pick up. He had had an idea to try to find some marsh bandits. Maybe things would be easier if he had a gang to back him up? But how to go about it? The landlords of the pubs he had snooped about in had soon seen he wasn’t a buyer and moved him on. He had spotted a fat gambler, who had had luck on the archery competition and was counting his winnings but two rough looking men likewise interested, had spotted him and told him where to go in no uncertain terms. Yes, life was difficult without accomplices, and he had none.

         The young Squire of Tawfen had spent the morning preparing himself in front of the mirror. With bow on his arm Isambard wanted to cut just the right dash as a huntsman, yet without the obvious social drawbacks of being just a huntsman. So the green velvet tunic and britches, fawn waistcoat and gloves and the boots as shiny as Burton could manage. And as an added touch, his silk red kerchief pressed and tucked into the breast pocket for ostentatious mopping of the brow.
He put his name down for the Mayfair Shoot with a grand flourish of the quill, suitably certain that the silver ducat entry fee would discourage the riff raff from entering. Then there were the ghastly cousins from Farvelor to entertain. Ghastly richer cousins who would doubtless be parading their close acquaintance with the Bishop in his face. Cousin Tristran, he was sure at least, couldn’t even pull a bow, but he’d stick to his rather lovely sister Giselle like the damp lank of hair of his own head. Still, Isambard knew Brother Michael well enough to at least partially negate their advantage, even if he would have to sit through the mind-numbingly boring sermon of the man at noon. As long as his father didn’t embarrass him with his ‘vision’ of Isambard’s future, he should cope. Maybe his mother could even gain some influence on the Bishop to get him some job in the city?

         The midday service was not as boring as Isambard had feared. Not because of what was said, but because of the news, that the new vicar of Tawfen would miss his inauguration, which had soon circulated about the congregation. There was worry and embarrassment for Father Compton and Brother Michael, which Father Rummbold and the Nicosian clergy, not to mention Isambard, secretly rather enjoyed. The fair festivities did continue, however, and Isambard had come a worthy second in the archery competition to Jack Sheen, a master bowmen in the command of Captain Scott, who was acting as escort for the Bishop. Evening drew on without word of the vicar and it became too late for the Bishops’ retinue to travel back to Farvelor. Instead Bishop Townsend had been offered and accepted accommodation by his father at Brannigan House, and his cousins were to be put up at the Coach and Horses. Although of course, they would have to be invited to supper, Isambard felt a tinge of pride that it would be under their roof, and relished the prospect of pushing such an advantage, both toward the Bishop and away from his cousins. He decided to help mother with the kitchen preparations.

         The sun was already heading for the low hills when someone with sharp eyes let out a shout from atop the Fairmound.
“Tam’s wagon! On the marsh road!”
Word soon spread and before long a crowd had gathered in anticipation of greeting the new vicar at the southern edge of town. The shouts of excitement soon turned to dismay, for it was clear that something was wrong. The covered wagon was weaving back and forth uncertainly across the track and came bumping its way over the Fairfield, making for the crowd.
“Why, old Shaun Cross be driving!” somebody shouted, “Whats ‘ee doing with the Sextons wagon?” The wagon pulled up as the crowd surged about it. Brother Michael was amongst the first to it and he pulled himself up onto the stoop and his voice rose above the clamour.
“Shaun Cross! What’s going on? Where’s Brother Frances?” he demanded, “Where’s Tam?”
“Oh Fatha Stone! Oi dunno what to say! Ees lost! Lost in the marsh!”
There were many cries and gasps and all manner of questions until Brother Michael had pleaded for calm. The crowd grew quiet and expectant, waiting on the old farmer’s words.
“Boogermen! Goblinses! They ‘ave been in their ambushes and taken ‘im!”
“But where’s Tam?” somebody shouted amid the chaos that followed his words.
“Ee came into Cross on this ‘ere wagon an’ ‘eed been shot! Sed I ‘ad to take message to the vicarage an’ then ‘ee passed clean out!”
“Shot? Collapsed? Bless the Angels!” Michael exclaimed, “Where is he now?”
“Ee be at my place. Aggies looking after ‘im, an’ I took the wagon.”
“You’d better come to the vicarage and tell the Bishop,” Michael said, “Keep clear there!” he shouted to the crowd, and without further fuss they let the wagon by.
         Many accompanied it right through the town to the church gates and were only persuaded to stay outside by the arrival of Captain Scott, hastily buttoning his tunic up, and some of his men. Others were carrying the rumours of a Goblin raiding party into the inns and taverns, and before long the town square was thronged with townsfolk, some concerned and frightened, some of them boisterously drunk and armed. The Captain quickly restored order.

         Inside the vicarage it was soon determined that Shaun had very little idea of the state of affairs, and the rumours of Goblins on the warpath were just that, so the Bishop decided to send Brother Michael in the wagon back to Cross to fetch the Sexton, and had Captain Scott disperse the crowd back to their homes. Sadly for Isambard, in view of events, the Bishop had elected to stay at the vicarage rather than Brannigan House. Most of the inns did not close until the small hours that night.

         It was late when Michael returned with Tam Amersham. The man was indeed out cold, though Michael could find no actual wounds on him, so he arranged to have the Sexton placed in bed and he kept a watch, too worried to notice he had missed supper entirely. The town aldermen were asked to organize a council to meet the next day at eleven in the town hall.

         The young Squire was in the Old Kings Head next morning where many of the gentleman farmers had congregated. The events of the missing vicar took precedence over the usual stock and seed prices and there was an air of expectation as the hour turned toward eleven.

         There was quite a crowd by the front of the town hall and Isambard let himself in by the side door with his Clerks key. The Sexton was already there in the inner bailey, looking very tired in a bath chair and Mayor Deuchary rapped the gavel to begin the proceedings. His father was there as well and cast him an angry glance as he slipped onto a bench by the clergymen. The Sexton told his tale in a voice little more than a whisper and the notables had to edge closer to catch the words, as scribe Didman scribbled furiously.

         An ambush there had been. It had happened on the 27th April, two days before Mayday as the Terran calendar was reckoned, moonwise. The Sexton, Brother Frances and a ranger called Thomas Corn had taken the wagon off the old marsh road into a stand of trees some miles beyond the Longwood, and had settled for the night. In the small hours Thom had suddenly jumped up and raised the alarm that there was something out there. Tam had immediately grabbed the horse and put it in the shafts and limbered up the wagon whilst Thom and Brother Frances had lit a lantern and gone to try to scare whatever beast it was away. They had returned to the camp, saying they couldn’t find anything, but they should get the wagon out onto the road. The horse was playing up, rearing and acting funny and he had to fight to control her. When he looked back he saw first Thom then Frances stumble and fall down and the lantern went out. Before he could help them, he glimpsed a band of short moon shadows approaching from all sides and felt something sting his leg. After that his recollection became hazy. All he could remember was jumping on the wagon and whipping the horse forward and his head starting to swim. He remembered the wagon tearing through the bushes and then nothing more. When he had awoke it was mid morning and he was somehow lashed to the wagon with his whip. The horse was in the Longwood and was calmly eating grass. His entire leg was numb and he couldn’t stand. It had been all he could do to struggle along the marsh road to Cross and the safety of civilization.

         After the deposition, the aldermen discussed the situation loudly. Who had done the deed? Why? What was to be done about it?
         Much of the talk was of ‘waiting for a ransom demand’, since they now knew there was no actual threat from ‘Goblins on the warpath’. The marsh, they pointed out, was no longer within the boundary of the Duchy of Farvelor or indeed the Ember Kingdom. Brother Michael grew increasing exasperated by their talk and demanded to be heard.
“The Church of St Albion still lays claim to the lands that were once within the Old Kingdom,” he insisted. The Bishop nodded but he added that whilst this was the Albionite position, yet the Cuthbertine Order, Michaels Order, made no such claim.
“But are we,” Michael said, “Going to let a Churchman, who serves this parish, be kidnapped from upon our doorstep and do nothing? What message will that send to the bandits that plague the marsh? That we, the folk of Tawfen, are soft touches? We shall be the target of all the rogues on the Pilgrim Way!”
The Priests words struck the Aldermen sorely, who grew red faced. Talk turned to sending men to search for the Priest, but the Town had no soldiery, only Bailiffs who could not be ordered into the marshes. They would have to petition the Duke of Farvelor for soldiers.
“It will be too late!” Michael whimpered, though his voice was drowned in the hubbub.
“I will go!” boomed a voice at the back of the hall. Heads turned to where Captain Scott, resplendent in his mail and breastplate was standing. “With your Grace’s permission, I shall take my men to where the deed was perpetrated and discover the truth of this matter.” He cast a broad confident smile around the hall, which lingered on one Lady Campion. Eyes turned to the Bishop, for the Captain and his men were his escort to the Mayfair, and he would have the say in the matter. Bishop Townsend conferred briefly with the Mayor and rose to his feet to address the chamber.
“Very well, Captain Scott. I give permission for you to seek Brother Frances on the marsh road and report what you uncover. But you are to return within the week and not leave the Old Kingdoms boundary.”
“You will need a Rangers help,” another softer, but somehow equally strong, voice called from the doorway, where bailiffs were keeping back the crowd of townsfolk. A man was there in leather jerkin with a great bow in his hands. On a sign from the mayor the man was ushered through and asked who he was and what business he had with the affair.
“I’m Barley, Jim Barley and my cousin is Thom Corn, lost with the Priest,” he said. “I know the marsh well and will accompany the Dukes men and be guide for the sake of my Thaneman.”
“Well said Sir!” Brother Michael exclaimed, jumping up, “And I too will go! I can take the Sextons wagon to bring them home in. They might be hurt!”
“What?” snapped the Bishop, his white eyebrows frowning deeply, “Do you expect me to risk a second Brother in the marsh?”
“Without me the rescue will fail, for I have seen Frances alive in my prayers and we are Conjoined!” Michael said passionately. The assembly passed puzzled looks between themselves and buzzed with conversation. The Mayor turned to the Bishop for guidance, for an explanation.
“It is a Church matter,” Townsend said simply, as if that explained it. “And have you the permission of Father Compton?” he asked Brother Michael, looking imperiously to where the old Father was sunk down in his chair, as if in a slumber. Michael looked at the old Vicar hopefully, expectantly. The old man coughed, raised himself awkwardly, slightly. He coughed again.
“The Covenant of Our Saint Cuthbert,” Father Compton began, as if giving a Sunday sermon, “Asserts that we must seek to help our Brothers who cannot help themselves and not fear death. In his own life Saint Cuthbert himself was.. ahem.. Spiritually joined to many of his disciples through whom he was able to lead the sick from the great Ember plague to the places of healing revealed to him. Such a Connection is a blessing from the Archangel Urael and a sign of the Creator. Brother Michael and Frances are gifted in this. I would not be the one to stand between them and the Angels.”
“Very well!” the Bishop said after consideration, though he was clearly displeased, “I shall allow you to go with Captain Scott.” Brother Michael thanked the Bishop and sat down, beaming. In the bustle afterwards, Michael gave Father Compton his sincere thanks.
“Don’t thank me til Frances is safely back m’son,” the old man replied gruffly, though with a spark of humour in his eye, “Besides I’m not about tae be lectured in my own parish by some Nicosian Bishop.”

         As the Bishop, the Mayor and the aldermen hammered out the details with Captain Scott, Michael sought out the stocky marshman that had spoken out and thanked him.
“Names Jim,” the ranger said gruffly, shaking the Priests hand awkwardly.
“Well you could help me prepare the sextons wagon..” Michael began.
“I got me own ‘orse,” Jim said, “We’ll be leaving at first light Im told, I’ll see you then,” and with that he was gone.
By late afternoon a proclamation had been drafted, set out on a great poster and nailed to the door of the town hall. The poster read:
‘To the people of the Mayfair and Tawfen. Let it be known that Priest Frances Moregrin and Thomas Corn are lost on the marsh road and that a search will be mounted to recover them at first light on May 3rd. The Aldermen of Tawfen and Bishop Towten Townsend of the most Holy Church of St Nestor’s, Farvelor have put forward a purse of 50 Silver Ducats for the safe recovery of Brother Frances Moregrin, which we pray may be swift. The command of Captain Elucias Scott of the Farvelor lancers will accompany Brother Michael Stone in this endeavour. There will be an Indulgence from the Bishop for a season for whomever accompanies them on horse.’
It was signed by the Bishop and the Mayor.

         “What’s an Indulgence?” Manon asked the stranger whom he had read the poster aloud to.
“Is vot de Pilgrims and knights haff to allow dem to miss out on Church services,” Tricky told him in his thick nasturian accent. “And,” he added sourly, “To detain and beat who dey please on der road.” He only knew because he had often sold forged ones to gullible pilgrims.
“Well I’m gonna try and sign up.” Manon said.
“You crazy! Vot about a horse?” Tomas smirked, looking at the other.
“Well I can drive a wagon, no problem. Maybe they’ll take me on that?”
“Vot about de Goblins?”
“Goblins? Pah! I expect tis only bandits. I’m not afraid of them!” and he started to walk to the vicarage.
‘We might meet bandits at that’, Tricky thought to himself. “Vait!” he called to the marshman, catching him up, “Can I kom vith you? I can drive also?”
“Sure. Why not? I’m Manon.”
“And I’m Tomas. But you can call me Tricky,” and the nasturian did for him a rare thing, he smiled genuinely.

         The two shabbily dressed young men, one tall, dark and lanky, the other shorter and with an easy smile pushed through the crowd at the vicarage and were shown around to the stable where Brother Michael was trying to get the wagon ready and waving away the latest fussing of Mrs Morton, the housekeeper. Having introduced themselves, Manon did most of the talking, agreeing emphatically with the Priest about how terrible it all was and concluding that they were volunteering to drive the wagon.
“Well its awfully kind of you to help.” Michael said looking them over earnestly. “You can drive a wagon?”
“Certainly yes,” Tricky said, which unusually for him, was the truth, for as getaway driver he had accompanied his elder brothers on more than one caper. He took the reigns in a practiced hand and admired the sturdy horses in the stall.
“Liam and Noel,” Michael said fondly, “They shouldn’t give you any trouble,” and with a handshake, that was that. Tricky joined Manon for supper and with all the talk of the kidnap, the pair were largely ignored by Jeds crowd, drinking Cutters’ cyder from large jars about the fire. Next morning Manon retrieved a large sack from the snoring wagon and they strolled off unobserved to the vicarage.

         There was no way the Squire was going to miss out on the excitement offered by an excursion into the marsh. There again there was also the sizeable possibility of increasing his standing with his Father, the Churchmen and indeed the whole town, if he might lead the enterprise. It was just a matter of persuasion. The first part was easy enough and after a brief chat with the rather unworldly Brother Michael, Isambard had all but elected himself as the person to naturally lead the expedition. The second part was more irksome.
“Why is it that you can’t put down roots in the good soil of Tawfen, m’lad?” Squire Kingdom Brannigan thundered, “Did you think ah educated you to go off into t’marsh?”
“I’m not sure I didn’t educate myself, Sir!” Isambard replied with a pinch of distain for the man.
“Whassat? Hmm!?” his father spluttered, “Too much h’education if you esks me!”
“But Brother Michael is my friend! I can’t let him go alone into the marshes whilst I sit back and do nothing! The family name is at stake!” Isambard changed tack quickly.
His father grumphed and hmmd and did what he usually did when confronted with his awkward third son. He referred him to his mother. Olivia Brannigan was a Truscott and, as with her family, the Church mattered to mother. It was her influence behind the scenes that had resulted in Isambards attendance at the ecclesiastical College in Ember, which had paved the way for his apprenticeship at the Hawthorns. It was easy for Isambard, to stoke up the winds of the Angelic faith about her and fill his religious sails to tack his way past her anxieties and towards berthing her agreement to accompanying the rescue on solid Church grounds. The Nicosian Church would surely need to be represented standing resolutely alongside the Cuthbertine Brother Stone? His mother, he knew, believed Father Compton to be Schismatic on the issue of whether a soul need guidance after death to get to the Creator. He would uphold the Nicosian Creed that it was only necessary for the individual to persevere to salvation by their actions and piety. So he, Isambard would take the Indulgence on its behalf, and on the behalf of the Bishop, naturally.

         And so by playing one against the other, it was done, and Squire Isambard Brannigan had Burton up half the night polishing and packing the things he might need on his adventure.