The Knotsman

Math Jones

• Publisher: Arachne Press
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781913665104
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Poetry
• Index: Literature

The Knotsman does not exist, you will not find him in history books or collections of 'bygone' skills. But Math Jones has created him, and his fellows, in a time very like the English Civil War. There he is, going from house to house, village to village, battlefield to gallows, unravelling knots and problems, physical, emotional and psychological; a new kind of cunning man, not always welcome, not always quite as clever as his fingers and picks would have him believe.

A True Historie of the Last Knotsman

D’ye hear the Knotsman came our way,

His tugs and picker in his case,

Calling around the market-place,

With ’is Any strings fer me t’day?

Did ye see the knots upon his face,

The lines and hitches tightly bound;

And trailing, like a tethered hound,

The story of his sharp disgrace:

A tale of scandal going round

Of lovers, closely knit, against

Their parents’ wishes, hard, incensed,

Unless the ’trothing-rope be found,

And so the Knotsman’s search commenced,

With heavy promises to find

The heart-string-join, and so unbind

The love-knot from their bloods condensed.

He spied the matted threads behind

The upper bedroom’s linen-chest,

And at the mothers’ fierce behest,

Began his loosing-work unkind.

The younger felt, within his breast,

The first cord of his heart untie,

And speaking to his lover’s eye,

Awoke him from his joyful rest.

I say we must the world deny,

Before the hitches of our heart

Are by the Knotsman eased apart.

The river took them both to die.

Arrested for his ‘devil’s art’,

Imprisoned by the New Belief,

All stoked by fathers’ rage and grief,

The Knotsman felt the judge’s dart,

But slipped his bindings, sought relief,

Escaping to our neighbour town,

Was by the constable put down

To hang from gallows on the heath.

A hangman came, of great renown,

To raise the beam and tie the noose,

A slip-knot two-step to induce,

And take the parents’ silver crown.

No rope would suffer such misuse

To cause the cunning Knotsman pain,

But showed the gallows-man disdain:

The loops and hitches set him loose;

The hangman tied his rope in vain,

As through the crowd the Knotsman slipped,

Not ever by a binding gripped,

Nor never to be seen again.

The Knotsman’s Apprentice

The Knottyman came to the backdoor. ‘A ’strings fer me?’ Mother would turn him away, but I pulled at her sleeve. Sissy said, ‘Miss Jemima, M’m?’

He searched the linen-chests, then the boot-room; he examined curtains, the spinning, even candle sconces. Shabby beside our bright things. A walking shadow, quiet around Jemima’s bed.

He brought three knots to the parlour: a leather cord in father’s breeches, his best. A silken from mother’s undergown. She blushed. And my bowstring, a toy left unused. All snagged and knotted beyond untying.

Mother tutted, agreed to his ‘penny a ’not’.

He let me watch, took the leather and pulled his blade. ‘Ni’ t’ cut, lad, nay. Niv’r t’ cut’. Tight skin on bone and sinew worked. I watched. He pushed the cords, not pulling, blew on them, tapped, eased the loops. Soon it was free. Father stormed into the house, shouting for mother!

He worked the silk, ‘Clen han’s, d’n’t mith’r’. I saw him tease the knot, split it in two, draw them apart, unbind them one at a time. Mother was screaming upstairs. I stood. His hand stilled me.

He took my bowstring, winked, working fingers, picking, pushing, rolling, teasing. Mother came down. Flushed, smiling. Father followed, not scowling, happy. He put coin on the table: a shilling! He took her hand.

A rush of cannonballs lurched in my stomach. Gunpowder and muskets. I stood, walking through a cavalry charge, embraced them.

The Knotsman went, leaving breeches, chemise and a new-strung, toy bow.

‘Jemima, M’m! She’s worse!’

She was burning, covers thrown, Sissy mopping her down. Father knelt to pray, mother sobbed.

I saw it. A single, light and crinkled thread, limp from the hem of her nightgown. Clearing my eyes, I sat at her feet. Took u...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• THE LAST KNOTSMAN
• APPRENTICESHIP
• LOOSE THREADS
• JOURNEYMAN
• MASTER
• Copyright