The Weaver's inheritance

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The letter, brief and obviously written with all the difficulties experienced by a person unused to wielding a pen, reached the home of my mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, just prior to the Christmas season of that year of Our Lord, 1476.

For once in my life, I had been looking forward to the cosiness of a winter spent mainly within four walls. I would contribute towards the household expenses by hawking my wares around the outlying villages and hamlets of Bristol, but intended to venture no further afield than a half-day’s journey, thus ensuring my return home before curfew and the closing of the city gates. I had also promised myself that those long, dark evenings, when doors and shutters were closed early against the inclement weather and we huddled together around the fire, would be spent getting to know my motherless daughter better.

Elizabeth had celebrated her second birthday in November, and was now a busy, prattling little girl — although it needed Margaret to interpret most of her utterances for me — toddling about the cottage, her hands constantly outstretched and ready to meddle in everything that did not concern her. Her grandmother’s spinning wheel held a particular fascination for Bess, as did the cooking crane over the fire, with the big iron pot suspended from its hook. Indeed, the only items in which my daughter evinced no interest were her toys; two wooden dolls named Rosemary and Fleur, a brightly painted wooden spinning top, and an equally garishly coloured wooden ball. These lay neglected and gathering dust in the chest alongside the bed which she shared with my mother-in-law.

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