Book of Souls

At the foot of Garrick Hill, he spurred the horse’s belly to coax it north, into a snaking, claustrophobic lane, whereupon he promptly felt the need to press his nose into a cloth. Open sewer ditches ran along both sides of Cordwainers Street, but the human effluent was not the greatest offense to Charles’s senses. Unlike the cobblers who made cheap shoes from used leather and eked out a living doing repairs, their more esteemed brethren, the cordwainers, needed fresh leather for new boots. So these city environs were also home to slaughterhouses and tanneries, the enterprises causing the greatest stench with their rank, boiling pots of leather, wool, and sheepskin.

All the good cheer of the morning had drained from him by the time he dismounted at his destination, a small shop marked with a hanging sign of black iron in the shape of a boot. He tied his horse to a post and sloshed his way through a mud puddle at the front of the two-story workshop, which was crammed cheek by jowl against other similar structures forming a long row of guild buildings.

Immediately, he suspected a problem. While the cobblers and other cordwainers on both sides of the street had their doors and windows open amidst signs of thriving commerce, this shop was shuttered tight. He muttered under his breath and banged upon the door with the heel of his hand. When there was no response, he banged again, even louder and was about to kick the bloody thing when the door slowly opened, and a woman stuck out her kerchiefed head.

“Why are you shut?” Charles demanded.

The woman was thin as a child but haggard and elderly. Charles had seen her at the shop before, and though aged, he had thought she must have been a great beauty in her youth. That impression was faded now, washed away by strong measures of worry and toil.

“My husband is ill, sir.”

“’Tis a pity, I am sure, madam, but I am here to collect my new boots.”

She looked at him blankly and said nothing.

“Did you not hear me, woman. I’m here for my boots!”

“There are no boots, sir.”

“Whatever do you mean! Do you know who I am?”

Her lip was trembling. “You are the Baron Wroxall, sir.”

“Fine. Then you know I was here six weeks ago. Your husband, Luke the Cordwainer, made wooden lasts of my feet. I made half payment, woman!”

“He has been ill.”

“Let me inside!” Charles pushed his way through the front door and looked around the small room. It served as a workshop, a kitchen, and a living space. On one side, a cooking hearth with utensils, a table, and chairs, the other side a craftsman’s bench, laden with tools and a paltry collection of cured sheepskins. A rack above the bench had dozens of wooden molds. Charles fixed his gaze on a mold that was inscribed “Wroxal” and exclaimed: “Those are my feet! Now where are my boots!”

From the higher floor a weak voice called out, “Elizabeth? Who is there?”

“He never began them, sir,” she insisted. “He became ill.”

“He’s upstairs?” Charles asked, alarmed. “There’s no plague in this house, is there madam?”

“Oh no, sir. He has the consumption.”

“Then I will go and speak to the man.”

“Please, no, sir. He is too frail. It might kill him.”

In recent years, Charles had become wholly unused to not getting his way. Barons were treated like-barons, and serfs and gentry alike acceded to their every whim. He stood there with his fists thrust truculently into his waist, his jaw jutting. “No boots,” he finally said.

“No, sir.” She was trying not to cry.

“I paid you a Half Noble in advance,” he said icily. “Give me my money back. With interest. I will take four shillings.”

Now the tears flowed. “We have no money, sir. He has not been able to work. I have begun trading his leather stock to other guild members for food.”

“So, you have no boots, and you have no money! What would you have me do, woman?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“It seems that your husband will be spending his last days in prison at his majesty’s pleasure, and you too will see the inside of a debtor’s cell. When you see me next, I will have the sheriff.”

Elizabeth fell to her knees and wrapped herself around his stockinged calves. “Please, no, sir. There must be another way,” she sobbed. “Take his tools as payment, take what you like.”

“Elizabeth?” Luke weakly called out again.

“Everything is fine, husband,” she shouted back.

While seeing these thieves to prison would give him satisfaction, he knew he would rather spend the rest of his morning at a new cordwainer than tramping around the foul city looking for the sheriff. Without answering, he went to the worktable and began to inspect the array of pincers, awls, needles, mallets, and knives. He snorted at them. What use to him, he wondered? He picked up a semicircular bladed instrument, and asked, “What is this?”

She was still on her knees. “It’s a trenket, a shoemaker’s knife.”

“What would I do with this in my belt,” he said derisively. “Cut off someone’s nose?” He poked around the table some more, and concluded, “This is rubbish to me. Have you anything of value in here?”