Free Mayflowers for November: The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn by Malyn Bromfield Page B

his butcher’s knife for he is the patron saint of butchers, leatherworkers and shoemakers.
    ‘It seems that there are not enough apostles to go round,’ I told Mother. ‘The divers trades have to share a saint.’
    Mother picked up a larger spoon and examined it. She stroked the top of the handle where Wodewose, the wild man from the woods, was surrounded by oak leaves and carried a club.
    ‘You wouldn’t sleep at night with him around,’ I said. ‘How about this needle case?’ It bore an inscription which mother and I couldn’t read.
    ‘Mater Dei Memento, Mother of God remember me,’ the vendor told us.
    ‘Do you want to buy it?’ I asked Mother. ‘You already have a wooden needle case.’
    ‘There are so many pieces. I need to have a proper look at everything.’
    Mother inspected spoons, buttons, ancient pilgrim badges and larger, more expensive pieces that I knew she couldn’t afford. She picked up a gilt-edged pomander and chain and held it against her kirtle.
    ‘My ladies at court might wear such as this. It is not for servants such as us in our common apparel. Pray put it back quickly, Mother, the vendor is watching you.’
    ‘Pewter ware is not grand enough for the Queen’s ladies,’ Mother told me,’even if there be a little gilding.’
    The merchant was busy showing off a set of buttons to a lady who must have been quite well off, for she was wearing a dark gown and a gable hood. He elbowed his apprentice boy and pointed towards mother.
    ‘My master’s finest pewter with very fine gilt work,’ the boy told her.
    ‘Can you afford it, Mother?’ I asked. ‘No one we know wears a pomander so grand, not even Mistress Pudding. You wouldn’t be allowed to wear it.’
    ‘Of course I cannot buy it,’ Mother whispered. ‘It costs nothing to look.’
    The boy stared at mother’s hand-made cloth pomander and smirked. ‘That will not offer much protection against sickness brought by London’s foul air. This pewter pomander has been blessed by a bishop. I will speak to my master. He will offer a fair price.’
    ‘Do not trouble your master. My family has been free from illness these fourteen years,’ Mother told him. ‘I will keep my faithful old pomander that I carried to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham nine months before my daughter’s birth.’
    Mother settled upon a buckle for Father’s belt. It was prettily decorated with cross hatching and there was a matching chape for the strap end. The boy told us it had been worn by an ancient man for four score years until his demise a month ago and would bring long life to the new owner. Mother began to discuss the price. Knowing her perseverance for bartering and impatient to spend my own money, I skipped off to a nearby leather booth and shouted out to mother to seek me there.
    I saw what I wanted immediately. A soft tanned purse, dyed so brightly it was almost cardinal-red. There was an extra pouch pocket at the front and both sets of drawstrings were decorated with pretty bone beads. The vendor laughed unkindly when I offered my three groats.
    ‘Prithee put the purse aside until my mother comes. She will pay a little more,’ I pleaded.
    The trader laughed again. He was here to make his living, he said, not to give favours to pretty wenches who only had three groats. Now, if there was anything else I could offer he might be willing to do a bit o’ business behind that tall gravestone yonder by the wall if someone would mind his wares for a few minutes. Bawdy male laughter followed. A round faced, middle-aged woman standing beside me examined the purse and untied its drawstrings.
    ‘Cut from goatskin you say?’ she inquired of the vendor. ‘More likely a bull’s pizzle.
    ‘Gracious, child,’ she told me,’ I don’t know which is ruddier. Your face or this purse.’
    If Father were there, he would have bartered for the purse. I knew he would. I returned to Mother who had bought the buckle and was now inspecting a large