VIII
BARBARA, THE LITTLE GOOSE-GIRL
HOW BARBARA SOLD GEESE IN THE CHEPE AND WHAT FORTUNE SHE FOUND THERE
Any one who had happened to be traveling along the Islington Roadbetween two and three o'clock in the morning, when London was a walledcity, would have seen how London was to be fed that day. But very fewwere on the road at that hour except the people whose business it was tofeed London, and to them it was an old story. There were men with cattleand men with sheep and men with pigs; there were men with little, sober,gray donkeys, not much bigger than a large dog, trotting all so brisklyalong with the deep baskets known as paniers hung on each side theirbacks; men with paniers or huge sacks on their own backs, partly restingon the shoulders and partly held by a leather strap around the forehead;men with flat, shallow baskets on their heads, piled three and four deepand filled with vegetables. That was the way in which all the butter,fruit, poultry, eggs, meat, and milk for Londoners to eat came intomedieval London. Before London Wall was fairly finished there were lawsagainst any one within the city keeping cattle or pigs on the premises.Early every morning the market folk started from the villages roundabout,--there were women as well as men in the business--and by thetime the city gates opened they were there.
It was not as exciting to Barbara Thwaite as it would have been if shehad not known every inch of the road, but it was exciting enough on thisparticular summer morning, for in all her thirteen years she had neverbeen to market alone. Goody Thwaite had been trudging over the roadseveral times a week for years--seven miles to London and seven mileshome--and sometimes she had taken Barbara with her, but never had shesent the child by herself. Now she was bedridden and unless they wereto lose all their work for the last month or more, Barbara would haveto go to market and tend their stall. Several of the neighbors hadstalls near by, and they would look after the child, but this was thebusy season, and they could not undertake to carry any produce buttheir own. A neighbor, too old to do out-of-door work, would tend themother, and with much misgiving and many cautions, consent was given,and Barbara set bravely forth alone.
She had her hands full in more senses than one. Besides the basket shecarried on her head, full of cress from the brook, sallet herbs andunder these some early cherries, she had a basket of eggs on her arm,and she was driving three geese. Barbara's geese were trained to walkin the most orderly single file at home, but she had her doubts as totheir behavior in a strange place.
The Islington Road, however, was not the broad and dusty highway that itis to-day, and at first it was not very crowded. Now and again, from oneof the little wooded lanes that led up to farmsteads, a marketman wouldturn into the highway with his load, and more and more of them appearedas they neared the city, so that by the time they reached the citygate it was really a dense throng. From roads in every direction justsuch crowds were pressing toward all the other gates, and boats ladenwith green stuff, fruits, butter and cheese were heading for the wharveson Thames-side, all bound for the market.
Naturally it had been discovered long before that some sort of orderwould have to be observed, or there would be a frightful state of thingsamong the eatables. Like most cities, London was inhabited largely bypeople who had come from smaller towns, and certain customs were commonmore or less to every market-town in England. In the smaller towns thecattle-market was held weekly or fortnightly, so that people notanxious to deal in cattle could avoid the trampling herds. London'scattle-market was not in the Chepe at all. It was in the fields outsidethe walls, in the deep inbent angle which the wall made betweenAldersgate and Newgate, where Smithfield market is now. Even in theChepe each kind of goods had its own place, and once through the gatesthe crowd separated.
"BARBARA KNEW EXACTLY WHERE TO GO"--_Page 97_]
Barbara knew exactly where to go. From Aldersgate she turned to the leftand followed the narrow streets toward the spire of St. Michael's Churchin Cornhill, where the poultry-dealers had their stands. Close by wasScalding Alley, sometimes known as the Poultry, where poultry were soldby the score, and the fowls were scalded after being killed, to makethem ready for cooking. Goody Thwaite's little corner, wedged in betweentwo bigger stalls, was not much more than a board with a coarse awningover it, but she had been there a long time and her neighbors werefriends. Barbara set down her loads, dropped on the bench and scattereda little grain for her geese. They had really behaved very well.
She was not very much to look at, this little lass Barbara. Hergrandfather had come from the North Country, and she had black hair andeyes like a gypsy. She was rather silent as a rule, though she couldsing like a blackbird when no one was about. People were likely toforget about Barbara until they wanted something done; then theyremembered her.
She penned in the geese with a small hurdle of wicker so that theyshould not get away; she set out the cherries and cress on one side andthe eggs on the other; then she put the eggs in a bed of cress to setoff their whiteness; then she waited. An apprentice boy came by andasked the price of the cherries, whistled and went on; a sharp-facedwoman stopped and looked over what she had, and went on. They were allin a hurry; they were all going on some errand of their own. The nextperson who came by was an old woman with a fresh bright face, white capand neat homespun gown. She too asked the price of the cherries andshook her head when she heard it. "How good that cress looks!" she saidsmiling.
Barbara held out a bunch of the cress.
"I can't give away the cherries," she said, "they are not mine, butyou're welcome to this."
"Thank you kindly, little maid," the old woman said, "my grandson's o'erfond of it. Never was such a chap for sallets and the like."
A few minutes later a stout, rather fussy man stopped and bought thewhole basket of eggs. As he paid for them and signed to the boy whofollowed to take them, Michael the poultryman in the next stall grinnedat Barbara.
"Ye don't know who that was, do you?" he said. "That was old GamelynBouverel the goldsmith. You'll be sorry if any of those eggs be addled,my maiden."
"They're not," said Barbara. "I know where all our hens' nests are, andGaffer Edmunds' too. We sell for him since he had the palsy."
Then a tall man in a sort of uniform stopped, eyed the staff, andwithout asking leave took one of the geese from the pen and strode offwith it hissing and squawking under his arm. But Michael shook his headsoberly as Barbara sprang up with a startled face.
"That was one o' the purveyors of my lord Fitz-Walter," he said. "He maypay for the bird and he may not, but you can't refuse him. There's onegood thing--London folk don't have to feed the King's soldiers nor hishousehold. Old King Henry,--rest his soul!--settled that in the Charterhe gave the City, and this one has kept to it. My grand-dad used to tellhow any time you might have a great roaring archer or man-at-arms, ormore likely two or three or a dozen, quartered in your house, willynilly, for nobody knew how long. There goes the bell for Prime--thatends the privilege."
Then Barbara remembered that the stewards of great houses were allowedto visit the market and choose what they wished until Prime (about sixo'clock) after which the market was open to common folk. A merchant'swife bought another goose and some cherries, and the remaining goose wastaken off her hands by the good-natured Michael, to make up a load ofhis own for a tavern-keeper. The rest of the cherries were sold to ayoung man who was very particular about the way in which they werearranged in the basket, and Barbara guessed that he was going to takethem as a present to some one. The cress had gone a handful at a timewith the other things, and she had some of it for her own dinner, withbread from the bakeshop and some cold meat which Goody Collins, herneighbor on the other side, had sent for. She started for home in goodtime, and brought her little store of money to her mother before any onehad even begun to worry over her absence.
The next market-day Barbara set forth with a light heart, but when shereached her stall she found it occupied. A rough lout had set up shopthere, with dressed poultry for sale. A-plenty had been said aboutit before Barbara
arrived, both by Michael and the rough-tongued,kind-hearted market-women. But Michael was old and fat, and no match forthe invader. Barbara stood in dismay, a great basket of red roses on herhead, her egg-basket on the ground, and the cherries from their finesttree in a panier hung from her shoulder. The merchant's wife had askedher if she could not bring some roses for rose-water and conserve, andif she had to hawk them about in the sun they would be fit for nothing.The Poultry was crowded, and unless she could have her little footholdhere she would be obliged to go about the streets peddling, which sheknew her mother would not like at all.
"What's the trouble here?" asked a decided voice behind her. She turnedto look up into the cool gray eyes of a masterful young fellow with alittle old woman tucked under his arm. He was brown and lithe and had anair of outdoor freshness, and suddenly she recognized the old woman. Itwas that first customer, and this must be the grandson of whom she hadspoken so fondly.
"This man says he has this place and means to keep it," Barbaraexplained in a troubled but firm little voice. "He says that only thepoultry dealers have any right here,--but it's Mother's corner and shehas had it a long time."
"Aye, that she has," chorused two or three voices. "And if there was aman belonging to them you'd see yon scamp go packing, like a cat out o'the dairy. 'Tis a downright shame, so 'tis."
"Maybe a man that don't belong to them will do as well," said the youthcoolly. "Back here, gammer, out of the way--and you go stand by her,little maid. Now then, you lummox, are you going to pick up your goodsand go, or do I have to throw them after you?"
The surly fellow eyed the new-comer's broad shoulders and hard-muscledarms for a moment, picked up his poultry and began to move, but as heloaded his donkeys he said something under his breath which Barbara didnot hear. An instant later she beheld him lying on his back in anone-too-clean gutter with her defender standing over him. He lost notime in making his way out of the street, followed by the laughter ofthe Poultry. Even the ducks, geese and chickens joined in the cackle ofmerriment.
"Sit thee down and rest," said the youth to Barbara kindly. "We must begetting on, grandmother. If he makes any more trouble, send some one,or come yourself, to our lodging--ask for Robert Edrupt at the houseof Master Hardel the wool-merchant."
"Thank you," said Barbara shyly. "There's plenty cress in the brook, andI'll bring some next market-day--and strawberries too, but not for pay."
"Kindness breeds kindness, little maid," added the old woman, andBarbara reflected that it sometimes breeds good fortune also.
This was not the end of Barbara's acquaintance with Dame Lysbeth and hergrandson. The old dame had taken a fancy to the self-possessed, quaintlydignified little maid, and the Thwaite garden proved to have in it manyfruits and herbs which she needed in her housekeeping. It was a veryold-fashioned garden planted a long time ago by a tavern-keeper fromthe south of France, and he had brought some pears and plums from hisold home in the south and grafted and planted and tended them verycarefully. There was one tree which had two kinds of pears on it, onefor the north side and one for the south.
Barbara's mother did not get any better. One day Robert Edrupt stoppedin the Poultry to buy a goose for dinner, to celebrate his home-comingfrom a long wool-buying journey, and the stall was empty.
"Aye," said Goody Collins, wiping her eyes, "she was a good-heartedwoman, was Alison Thwaite, and there's many who will miss her. She diedtwo days ago, rest her soul."
Edrupt bought his goose of Michael and went on his way looking sober. Aplan had occurred to him, and when he talked it over with Dame Lysbethshe heartily agreed. A day or two later Barbara, standing in the door ofthe little lonely cottage and wondering what she should do now, saw thetwo of them coming down the lane. Dame Lysbeth opened the gate and camein, but Robert, after a bow and a pleasant word or two to Barbara, wenton to the next farm on an errand.
Barbara could hardly believe her ears when she heard what the old damehad to say. The young wool-merchant had brought his grandmother toLondon to keep house for him because he did not like to leave her alonein her cottage in the west country, nor could he live there so far fromthe great markets. But neither of them liked the city, and for the nextfew years he would have to be away more than ever. He and Master Gay hadbeen considering a scheme for importing foreign sheep to see if theywould improve the quality of English wool. Before they did this Edruptwould have to go to Spain, to Aquitaine, to Lombardy and perhaps evenfurther. While he was abroad he might well study the ways of the weaversas well as the sheep that grew the fleece. He wanted to buy a farm hehad seen, with a tidy house on it, where Dame Lysbeth could have thesort of home she was used to, but with maids to do the heavy farm work.If Barbara would come and live there, and help see to things, she wouldbe very welcome indeed as long as she chose to stay.
Dame Lysbeth had never had a daughter, and she had often thought in thelast few months that if she had one, she would like to have just sucha girl as Barbara. The young girl, on her side, already loved her oldfriend better than she had ever loved anybody but her own mother, and soit came about that when the spring turned the apple orchards white aboutKing's Barton, three very happy people went from London to the farm nearthat village, known as the Long Lea. It had land about it which was notgood enough for corn, but would do very well for geese and for sheep,and there was room for a large garden, as well as the orchard. Even inthose early days, people who bought an English farm usually inheritedsome of the work of the previous owner, and as Robert said, they wouldtry to farm Long Lea in such a way as to leave it richer than they foundit, and still lose no profit.
"Don't forget to take cuttings from this garden, lass," he said toBarbara in his blunt, kindly way, as they stood there together for thelast time. "There are things here which we can make thrive in the yearsto come."
"I have," said Barbara staidly. She motioned to a carefully packed andtied parcel in a sack. "And there's a whole basket of eggs from all ourfowls."
Edrupt laughed. He liked her business-like little way.
"Did you take any red-rose cuttings?" he inquired. "There's a still-roomwhere the old castle used to be, and they'd use some, I believe."
"It's the Provence rose," Barbara said. "I took the whole bush up andset it in a wooden bucket. Michael won't want that."
Michael the poultryman was adding the little garden and the stall in thePoultry to his own business. He would cart away the little tumbledowncottage and plant kale there.
"The Provence rose, is it?" queried Edrupt thoughtfully. "We'll have itbeside our door, Barbara, and that will make you feel more at home."
Both Barbara and the roses throve by transplanting. When Edrupt camehome from his long foreign journey, more than a year later, it wasrose-time, and Barbara, with a basket of roses on her arm, wasmarshaling a flock of most important mother-ducks with their ducklingsinto the poultry-yard. The house with its tiled and thatched roofs satin the middle of its flocks and fruits and seemed to welcome all whocame, and Dame Lysbeth, beaming from the window, looked so well contentthat it did him good to see her.