A Time to Blossom

The Last Supper

“Well, you two certainly look at lot fresher and smarter than you did half an hour ago,” said Craig’s mum. “You looked like a couple of chimney sweeps. I could barely recognise you when we came into the lab.”

“I can see why people with the name ’Smith’ get nicknamed ‘Smudge’” added Craig’s dad. “And that must have been one of the longest showers on record…”

“Er, we needed to cool down, didn’t we, Nat?” said Craig hurriedly, looking to Nat to back him up.

“And get the dirt off. It was hammered in deep…” added Nat quickly.

Craig’s dad smiled. “I’ll believe you…”

“Where are we going, dad,” asked Craig, quick to try and change the subject. “Gran said something about eating out…”

Craig’s mum smiled. “Seeing as how it’s our last night with your gran and grandad, and Nat’s last full day here too, we thought we should make it special. To say ‘Thank you’ to gran and grandad for putting up with us, and also to give Nat something to remember.”

“Oh, I’ll always remember this holiday, Julie,” said Nat, “It’s been so special already, it couldn’t get better.”

“Creep!”

“Craig!”

“Sorry mum, I’m only joking. Nat knows that…”

“We’re going to a banquet at the Barley Hall. That’s the old Lord Mayor’s house, from about 1400. Your gran did some archaeology there once. I wrote my dissertation on the ‘Stylistics of mediaeval psalter illumination in Yorkshire” based on the hymnals kept there.”

Craig’s dad smirked, bent conspiratorially towards Craig and Nathan, and whispered. “I just turn up and eat the food.” 

“I’ve booked us a table,” continued Craig’s mum, “The banquet starts at seven, so we just have time to drive into town, park up and then take a nice stroll past the cathedral and down Stonegate to the Barley Hall. I think you’ll like it, Nathan. Barley Hall used to be the Mayor’s House in the 1400s, then got used for loads of other things over the years and almost forgotten about. It was nearly demolished in the 1970s but someone recognised the structures under the more modern additions and had it restored back to its original form. Owain’s joining us too.”

“That’ll be good, mom. I’ve loads of questions to ask him. You’ll love it too, Nat. A proper mediaeval banquet. We can sit there like Henry VIII, throw chicken leg bones over our shoulders just like he did after scoffing them and drink loads of ale.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Craig. Really, I despair of you sometimes…”

***

“Wow,” said Nathan as he passed though the small snicket between two modern shops and stepped out into the courtyard beyond, Coffee Yard, that housed Barley Hall. “You’d never know this place was here. It’s a bit like Diagon Alley.”

“Nah, Natt, Nothing like it. Ask Shane. He’s actually been to Diagon Alley.”

A small group of about twenty people were already strolling around the courtyard, being entertained by a firebreather and a jester as they waited to enter the wooden framed, lathe and plaster, Barley Hall via a flight of wooden steps up to the first floor.

Craig’s gran leaned over to Nat. “People lived on the upper floors back then, Nathan. The ground floor was for the animals. They would have kept a few sheep or pigs, maybe a horse or two, behind that wooden door there. Driven them out to the common to graze in a morning and herded them back each night. Now look, here comes Owain, along with Lizzie and Jackie. Looks like we’re all assembled.”

Bloody Hell. I wasn’t expecting Lizzie and Jackie. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want them here, they’re nice enough. But they’ll get all snarky and keep digging at me and Nathan all night but we’ll have to be nice to them.

 “Evening, boys. My, you two do scrub up well. Jackie, you didn’t tell me we were going to dine with Lord Fauntleroy tonight. I thought you said we had a date with those two hot young slaves that escaped from the forge…”

See what I mean?

“Hey, Boots, look up there. At the balcony thing at the top of the steps. Somebody in old fashioned costume is appearing. Is it Juliet?”

Mum smiled. “It’s good Mistress Snawsell, Nathan, wife of the Lord Mayor, William Snawsell. This was his house nearly six hundred years ago. She’s probably going to invite us inside…”

“Fair pilgrims, good gentles all, 

I bid thee welcome.

Enter now unto our Greate Hall, 

Be merry, rest awhile thy weary feet,  

Drink, and of our humble offerings, eat.”

“Perhaps we should go in, in process,” smiled gran. “That’s how it would have been done back then. Older and senior to the front, junior to the rear, the gentlemen escorting their ladies.”

The other groups waiting in the courtyard didn’t bother, just all wandered up the steps in a great big noisy gaggle as good Mistress Snawsell stood at the top and welcomed them each in turn. Well, they didn’t have a Professor of Archaeology and a mum with a degree in old stuff to advise them, did they? We did it properly though, forming a procession. Gran and grandad at the front, then mum and dad behind them.  I turned to Jackie and offered her my arm, and Nat did the same to Lizzie. That’s how things should be done. Protocol. Etiquette.

“Oh, boys,” laughed Lizzie. “Let’s be a bit more modern about this, shall we? It’s pretty obvious you two would rather be together. You were smouldering at each other all afternoon. I’m sure Owain will escort us young ladies in as his wards, and you two can follow on behind.”

Owain grinned as he offered his arms to Lizzie and Jackie. “So, I wasn’t the only one to notice that, then? I’d be honoured to escort you two young ladies now it seems I’m not in competition with these two young bucks.”

Owain, Lizzie and Jackie followed on up the steps behind mum and dad, then Nathan and I brought up the rear of our procession. Halfway up the stairs Nathan looked across at me and smiled. Slipped his hand into mine. Mistress Snawsell smiled as we reached her.

“Good evening, young Sirs, most welcome guests,

Repose with us awhile, enjoy our fests,

Sumptuous delicacies await within for your delight:

I bid thee be happy and gay this night.”

“Stop sniggering, Nat. Being gay back then just meant being jolly.”

“Err, Boots, I think the good Mistress Snawsell knew very well what she meant. Loosen up a bit…”

* * *

Nathan stopped dead as they entered into the Hall.

“Wow, Boots! It’s like just from a film. All those candles round the walls, and the big oak tables. The shields too!”

“Those are rushlights, Nathan,” said Craig’s mum. “Just strips of the spongy core of bullrushes dipped in tallow – animal fat. Much cheaper than candles, and allowed the more valuable beeswax to be used for more important things. If you look to the High Table, the one at the far end on the raised dais where the Master and Mistress Snawsell and their special guests are sitting, they have a few candles, but the rest of the Hall is lit with rushlights.”

“The decorations on the wall that look like shields are the arms of the city’s Livery Companies and Guilds. That one over there is the Butcher’s Guild for instance, they had all their shops in Shambles, where you went earlier this week,” added Craig’s gran. “They used to hang their meat on frames called a shammel and so people used to say they were going to the shammels if they were out to buy meat. Over the centuries the name gradually got corrupted and the street of butchers became known as the Shambles instead of the shammels. Now, let’s sit down. This table along here by the side wall, with the big oak benches, is ours.”

As the group took their seats along each side of the big, sturdy but simple oak table, a costumed serving girl wandered over and placed a large wooden mug, spoon and knife on the table in front of each of them. All were, simple, robust and very utilitarian. Craig turned the knife over in his hands, studying it. It was a simple strip of steel to which had been riveted a wooden handle and the blade end sharpened to a point.

“Do we get a fork?”

“No,” laughed his grandad, “They haven’t been invented yet. We’re back in the 1400s remember, forks are an effete invention not introduced from France yet.”

“See,” laughed Craig, “I told we could pick up our chicken legs and eat them by hand, Nat.”

“Yes,” said Craig’s gran, “Fingers were quite acceptable for dining with back in this era. And you’ll be able to drink ale too, well, small beer at least, assuming your mother doesn’t mind.”

Craig’s mom smiled, ”Yes, I think you can have some beer if you’re sensible, Craig.”

“Back in the Middle Ages, even later, water was often contaminated and unfit to drink, so most people drank beer, said Craig’s grandad. “The brewing process killed off the bacteria that caused things like cholera. It was one of the first regulated industries too, with guilds and powerful laws. It had to be safe and fit to drink. Everywhere that brewed and sold beer had to be inspected, and had to have a big sign outside identifying it.”

“It helped the Peculier and taxmen find them, too,” added Owain.

“Yes,” continued grandad. ”The Peculier used to ensure the beer was fit to drink. He was an official appointed, usually by the ecclesiastical court, hence he was a Peculier man, basically to make sure the beer was safe and people weren’t being ripped off with sub-standard ale. That’s why all pubs in Britain have a big sign board outside up until this very day. As most people couldn’t read, the board usually just had a big, bright, simple picture on it for identification and people would say they bought their ale at the sign of the White Rose or the Blue Boar or whatever.”

“Or the Leaky Cauldron?” added Nathan.

“Or the Leaky Cauldron,” laughed Owain.

“The brewers would get three brews from each mash,” said Craig’s grandad. “The first mash would give a strong beer, full of flavour and often a little bitter tasting, hence the description, ‘best’. That was for the working men, toiling in the forges or fields. The second mashing gave a weaker beer, with a little less strength, and not so bitter, hence the second mash became known as a ‘mild’ beer. That was for genteel folk, like clerks and parsons, and the women of course. Finally, the third mash was quite weak, basically not much better than the washings out of the mash tun, and was for the children, hence it was known as ‘small beer’, that is for the small people.

“You heard grandad, mum. Me and Nat deserve best bitter tonight,” Craig was quick to point out.

“I agree,” said Owain, “They worked hard, so a pint of good bitter is a fair reward.”

“Yes, but just the one,” agreed Craig’s mum.

As if on cue, the serving girl returned and slapped a large pewter pitcher of ale in the centre of the table, right in front of Craig’s dad, and then turned to Craig’s gran. “Would you good ladies be wishing for a little wine? We have the finest casks imported this very season from Burgundy, Bordeaux, Alsace and even Corsica.”

 As Craig’s gran, mum, Jackie and Lizzie all leaned together and began to confer, Craig’s dad smirked at grandad and muttered:

“double, double, toil and trouble.
fire burn and cauldron bubble”

causing everyone else to start laughing.

“What was that, Mark?” asked Craig’s mum, glancing up.

“Oh, nothing, darling.”

By the time several bottles of wine had been ordered - “Well, it would be rude not to try more than one” - Craig’s dad had poured all the men a good serving of the beer into their wooden mugs and placed the pitcher back on the table.  

Master Snawsell at High Table rapped a large spoon on the table in front of him and invited his guest, Bishop Booth, to say Grace. “Mek it snappy, Bish, the people are ‘ungry.”

As the Bishop, a portly gentleman in flowing ecclesiastical robes, struggled to his feet, Owain jumped up and in an imposing voice, called out:

“O Lord above, O Lord Divine,

Who turneth water into wine,

Take pity on us humble men

Who strive to turn it back again.”

The room erupted into laughter and the Bishop waved his hand in blessing as Owain sat down again and Master Snawsell signalled for the food to be served.  Craig’s gran and grandad, seated at the head of their table were served first when the serving wenches reached Craig’s table.

“What we got, gran?” enquired Craig as the serving girl began to work her way around the table, placing a wooden bowl before each guest.

“It’s a traditional dish, Craig. Mulled pear with Stilton and pine nuts, with a potherb salad. You’ll like it.”

Craig exchanged glances with Nathan as their servings were placed in front of them.

“Looks good, Nat.”

“Smells like brandy on the pear, Boots. Do we fish it out with our fingers or eat with our spoons?”

“Spoons, Nat.”

“So, Craig,” asked Owain as he ate his pear, “What A Levels are you doing? And what do you plan to do when you’ve finished them? Which University?”

“Oh, I’ve not started A Levels yet. I might not even bother. I’m still 15. Definitely no university. I’m joining the marines, aren’t I, dad?”

Craig’s dad smiled. “Yes, you can join the marines, but as I’ve told you before, I’m expecting you to do A Levels and a degree wouldn’t hurt either. You’re smart enough.”

“You didn’t do a degree before joining up dad.”

“No, but you’re smarter than me. It would be useful for you to have a degree in reserve before you join up. Join up as an officer rather than in the ranks.”

“You joined up in the ranks at 16, dad, worked your way up. The marines sponsored you to do a degree when you became an officer. I could do the same.”

“You should do a degree, Craig. You have what it takes. Especially seeing how good you are at maths, physics and even chemistry.”

“Just because I’m good at them, mom, doesn’t mean I have to do a degree in them.”

“Maybe, Boots, you could do a degree, then join the marines as an officer, just like your pop says. Don’t waste your talents. You’re already a year ahead in your studies.”

“Nat, whose side are you on?”

“Yours, Boots.”

“Thank you, Nathan, perhaps Craig will listen to you. Nathan is being sensible, Craig.”

“Mom…”

Owain smiled and spoke again. “You seemed to enjoy the practical work today, forging the sword blade. You were good at it too. I’m not just saying that. You really do seem to have a talent for practical work. Good with your hands.”

“He definitely is,” interrupted Nat, causing Lizzie and Jackie to smile but the innuendo seemed lost on the others.

“And if you’re good at maths, physics and chemistry, maybe you’d enjoy doing a Metallurgy degree,” continued Owain. “That’s all about the science of metals and metal working. You know from today how it feels to hit metal, feel the difference between iron and steel, hear the difference between iron and steel as you work them at high temperature. Quench and temper them to make them strong, hard, tough. Why not learn the reason why they are different, what makes steel strong? What makes iron tough? How the atoms interact? Metallurgy combines physics and chemistry, throws in a good dose of mathematics and thermodynamics. Unites all the sciences. It’s like I said this afternoon, Boots. Metallurgy is the only work befitting of Gods.”

“You should at least think about it, Craig,” said Craig’s gran.

“Work befitting Gods, Boots,” said Nat and finished off his pear.

As a couple of scullions collected in the empty wooden bowls, the serving wenches reappeared and began to lay out the second course. Impatient as ever, Craig craned his neck to see what his gran had been served. She smiled and turned to him.

“You’ll like this too, Craig. It’s venison braised with apricots, cinnamon, coriander, saffron and Star Anise with root vegetables. No potatoes though, America hasn’t been discovered yet, so just parsnips, beet, cabbage, peas, beans and carrots.”

“See, Boots, America is good for something. No potatoes without us.”

“Uum, Nat, let me think,” said Craig. “Potatoes and America, or no potatoes…”

“I vote for Columbus to turn back,” laughed Lizzie, “No potatoes would definitely be better for my figure.”

“Nothing wrong with your figure,” said Craig, “You look pretty hot.”

“Why, thank you, kind Sir,” laughed Lizzie, “That means a lot, especially coming from a gay boy.”

Craig blushed. “I’m just saying you look nice, Lizzie, not that I fancy you....”

There was silence for quite some time as everyone enjoyed their main course, the slow cooked venison being especially succulent and the sweetness of the apricots and tang of the aniseed being an excellent enhancement to the vegetables.

“You see that big key that Mistress Snawsell is wearing on a cord around her neck, Craig?”

“Yes, mom.”

“That’s the key to the spice cupboard, Craig. Spices were rare and expensive back in old times and so they would be kept locked away in a cupboard that only the mistress of the house had a key to. The cook would need her permission o open it up and select the spices used to enhance each meal. Otherwise, the cooks might just sell off the spices to supplement their wages. These days, we talk about a peppercorn rent being a token sum but in reality, back in mediaeval times, peppercorns were worth their weight in gold. Saffron still is.”

“Nat, remind me to buy a tub of pepper next time we’re at the shops.”

“Sure will, Boots. Mark, can I top up our beakers with bitter beer? Me and Craig are almost out.”

* * *

“Good gentles all, pray quiet for compline;

For now our humble minstrels do their talents display, 

Relax, drink of thine ales and wine,

And, ere our just desserts, for God list them play.”

Master Snawsell, Lord Mayor of York, crossed his breast and sat back down. Above them, in the gallery, several troubadours took up their places and began to play.

“We can do that, Boots,” said Nat as one minstrel slowly began to beat a rhythm on a drum and a second began to slowly play a stringed instrument that looked vaguely like a cello. The other two musicians were playing recorders, old style recorders, made of reeds.”

The audience sat quietly, politely enjoying the performance.

“Come on, Boots, let’s ask if we can join in.”

“Nat!”

“Come on Boots, you do the drum bit. You’re ace at drums.”

Nathan and Craig climbed up to the musicians’ gallery and took their places as Mistress Snawsell stood and made an announcement.

“Good gentles all, I hold thee in thrall,

Pray silence for new sounds in this great Hall:

From places undiscovered yet beyond the Western Sea,

Hearken keen and enjoy with me.”

“You sure about this, Nat? I know foxtrot alpha about Mediaeval music.”

“Just beat along quietly, Craig, provide a constant rhythm under what I play. This gamba is an early predecessor to the cello. We’re not doing mediaeval music. You know Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’?”

“Of course I bloody do, Nat. We play it for Remembrance Day at school.”

“So, we’re halfway there, Boots. And you know Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’?”

“I know it, Nat. Slow and mournful, but not a drum or bugle tune.”

“Don’t worry about that. I can do it on the cello. Well, this gamba. Just play me a slow drum beat under it. A dirge. Can you do that?”

“Course I bloody can.”

“Improvise if you need to, Craig. I’m going to start with my version of ‘Nimrod’ and then glide into ‘Hallelujah’ We want this slow and sleazy. Emotional. Rip their hearts apart. Got that?”

“Got that, Natters.”

* * *

Craig’s mum put down her wine glass and looked at Mark. Mark, Craig’s dad, was listening in disbelief. Craig’s gran and grandad, Owain, Lizzie and Jackie similarly put their glasses down and concentrated on the sounds washing down from the minstrels’ gallery, reverberating around the Great Hall. The guests at the other tables sat in enthralled silence. Master and Mistress Snawsell, Bishop Booth, sat enraptured. Craig ceased drumming, then began to sing along with Nathan as Nathan let the last reverberations of ‘Nimrod’ die away and began to play ‘Hallelujah’.

“Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord

That David played, and it pleased the Lord

But you don’t really care for music, do you?

It goes like this

The fourth, the fifth

The minor fall, the major lift

The mighty king composing Hallelujah.….”

As the last notes of the gamba died away, slowly dissolving into the fabric of the seven-hundred-year-old building, Craig and Nathan turned to each other. Below them, the audience sat rapt, spellbound.

“You good, Boots?”

“I’m good, Nat. That was awesome. You can play that gamba thingy. “

“Not bad on that drum yourself, Boots. Way subtle. Hot vocals too. Come on, lets go back down and join the others for the dessert course.

* * *

“I’m definitely going to have a go at making this, gran,” Craig said as he tucked into his dessert. “It looks simple but tastes fantastic.” The dessert was half an orange, the contents scooped out, partly pulped and replaced back into the skin with the addition of fruits such as blackberries and sliced strawberries, a sprinkling of sugar, raisins, a hint of cinnamon and ginger.

“Oranges would have been quite a treat back in the mediaeval period, Craig. They would have been brought all the way from southern Europe.”

“I think they still are, gran,” laughed Craig. “The Yorkshire orange groves all got wiped out by a late frost this year, Nat, and by a swarm of orange moth last year, and for decades before that they had trouble with the pixies. The tea plantations are fine though…”

“It looks like we’re partly keeping with tradition to end the meal,” said Craig’s mum as the serving girl brought a cheeseboard to the table, followed by a large pitcher of spiced mead and a platter of oatcakes. “Mead is a sort of wine made from honey, Nathan, quite sweet and a good accompaniment to a cheese. They didn’t have tea and coffee back in the 1400s, but the well-to-do would have had mead to wash down their oatcakes and cheese after a meal. Help yourself to a small glass before Craig gets at it.”

As everyone finished off the last of cheese and biscuits, Craig’s gran dipped into her handbag and took out a small velvet pouch and placed it beside her glass, which then the tapped a few times with her knife to attract everyone’s attention. When everyone at their table was silent and looking at her, she spoke.

“As you all know, we’ve had a very enjoyable week this Easter, made even more so by having our grandson Craig with us joining in many of the events we organised for the Trust and at the University. Made more special still by Craig’s friend Nathan visiting us from America and lending a hand too, not to mention the beautiful music he’s been wringing out of our old piano in the evenings.”

“He didn’t do too badly tonight on that old lute thingy either,” smiled Jackie.

“I’m still laughing at some of the comments he made to Craig when they did their double act as tour guides at the dig,” added Lizzie. “You’d have loved it, Owain. Stand-up comedy direct from the Coliseum.”

“Now, Nathan, to show much we’ve enjoyed having you here and for you to remember us all by when you return to America, I have a small gift for you.” Craig’s gran handed Nathan the small pouch. Nathan held it in the palm of his hand for a second and stared at it.

“Open it, Nat. It’s a bag. What’s in it? It won’t open itself.”

As Nat pulled the tiny drawstrings on the bag and let the contents slide out into his palm, Craig’s gran smiled. “We can’t let you have the hacksilver you and Jackie found, but I’d like to give you a small coin from my own collection as a keepsake. It’s a silver antoninianus, a coin worth about two denarii. It’s from the reign of Postumus, that’s his head on the front, so from about 260 AD. Hercules is on the back. It’s a bit worn, but you can still make him out.”

“Wow, look at this Craig,” said Nat, turning the coin over in his hand. “A real Roman coin. Nearly two thousand years old.”

“They aren’t that rare, Nat. Gran’s got loads of them.”

“That’s true,” smiled Craig’s gran. “The Romans made lots of coins – they had an Empire to run you know – and for over six hundred years at that, so plenty of loose change slipped out of pockets for us to find. But I hope it will be a nice reminder for you of your time here with us.”

* * *