Lucy thought of it. Parliament was elected, of course, but only by the handful of men who were entitled to vote. In some boroughs that included all the freeholders, but in others a dozen aldermen sufficed. Only gentlemen came to Parliament, and the gentlemen of the House of Commons were undoubtedly alarmed by this uprising of an armed rabble.
‘What will Parliament do?’ she asked worriedly.
That just provoked another of Ned’s grins. ‘What can they do? They have no second army to counter this one!’
‘There’s the Scots!’ Lucy pointed out unhappily. The Scots would obviously be extremely angry if England broke its Covenant to establish a Presbyterian church.
‘Let them wail!’ Ned said airily. ‘Parliament will come to terms; they have no choice else!’ He tapped his letter against the table, then eyed her speculatively. ‘Why not come along this evening? Hear the talk for yourself!’
‘What, to your tavern?’
‘Nay, to Whitehall Palace! Of course to my tavern!’
‘Do honest women come?’
Ned was surprised, then offended. ‘Do you think I keep a bawdy house?’
Lucy felt her face go hot. ‘Nay, indeed not, but–but in Leicestershire, godly women don’t frequent taverns.’
For a moment she thought Ned would say something sharp, but he frowned. ‘Aye, your uncle’s a very godly man, so I’ve heard. He’d take it amiss, would he?’ He folded his letter and tucked it in his jerkin. ‘I’ll speak to your uncle if he comes this evening, tell him it’s naught to fear. It would be well if you came to the meetings, now that you do so much of the printing.’
Lucy almost told him that whatever Uncle Thomas thought of this suggestion, Aunt Agnes would be outraged, but she held back. She didn’t want to embarrass Thomas and she wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted herself. She hadn’t previously considered this as something she might do; now she was both intrigued and alarmed. It would be interesting to hear the talk, but it would mean crossing another line. She’d come to the cause as hired help, an onlooker; she’d become a sympathizer; if she started attending meetings, she would have enlisted.
Thomas did go to the meeting at The Whalebone that evening. He returned after Lucy had gone to bed, but when she came downstairs in the morning she saw that Ned had spoken to him because he gave her a very anxious look. ‘I’ve business in the City today,’ he announced. ‘Lucy, I’ll set you on your way this morning.’
Agnes muttered angrily, ‘Whose business in the City? Not yours, I’ll warrant!’ When Thomas looked at her, however, she fell sullenly silent.
Thomas started on the subject as soon as they were out of the door. ‘Lucy, child, last night it was suggested that I should bring you to our council meetings at The Whalebone, at least while Nick Tew and poor Will are in prison.’
‘Council meetings?’ she repeated, surprised. It seemed a very grand name for drinks in a tavern.
‘Aye, our common council meets in The Whalebone on Thursdays,’ said Thomas impatiently. ‘The others thought it a fair notion that you should attend, but they defer the decision to me. I . . . well, you know, child, that I mislike the risk to your safety, and I fear what your father would say.’
He said nothing about any scandal in her attendance. ‘Do women come to these meetings, Uncle?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, surprising her. ‘Mrs Lilburne comes, and the wives of some of the other men. Mary Overton came, until she was imprisoned. Katherine Chidley – a most outspoken soul – never misses a meeting; her son, Samuel, is our treasurer—’
‘Treasurer?’ repeated Lucy, surprised again.
‘Aye,’ said Thomas, blinking at her. ‘He keeps the common fund that pays half your wage.’
‘It does?’ Browne hadn’t mentioned that. Where, she wondered, did the money in the common fund come from? But that was an easy question: it came from collections among the ‘well-affected’. Another reason, she suspected, that Agnes disapproved of her husband’s friends. For her own part, she was intrigued. Villagers might band together to oppose an enclosure, but this sort of organisation – a council with regular meetings, a common fund managed by a treasurer – was something more.
‘Aye, Will asked for help,’ Thomas continued, ‘and we agreed that he was entitled to it. But this strays from the point! What I meant to say was that this notion of your attendance troubles me. Already I fear that your father will be wroth with me on your account. If he learns that I’ve brought you to . . . well, you and I know it’s honest business, undertaken in goodwill to the Commonwealth, but some would call it a nest of heresy and sedition.’
‘What need has he to know?’ asked Lucy. ‘Cousin Geoffrey will leave London before long, and once he’s gone, who’ll tell my father? I won’t, you may be sure of it!’ She realized even as she spoke that, yes, she did want to attend the meetings. If she was going to risk arrest, it should be for what she was doing and not just because she was William Browne’s hired help and Thomas Stevens’ niece.
Thomas stared at her for a long moment, taken aback. ‘It would scarce be honest of me to—’
‘My father won’t care anyway,’ Lucy interrupted. ‘I’ve told you: his wish is to forget that he ever had a daughter. It’s Cousin Geoffrey who’d stir up trouble, and Cousin Geoffrey has no rights in the matter! I doubt he cares a fig what happens to me, but he’s offended with you because his parliamentary clerk fobbed him off. Waiting until Geoffrey’s gone would not be dishonesty but–but simple avoidance of a quarrel!’
She could see that the argument carried some weight, but still Thomas frowned. ‘Sweet, I would not risk my own daughter thus: how can I risk my poor sister’s?’
‘Uncle . . .’ Lucy began, then had to smile. Thomas stared in surprise. ‘Uncle, can you imagine Hannah ever doing such a thing as this? She–well, she’s a sweet, gentle soul, but . . .’
Thomas suddenly returned the smile. ‘She would be affrighted and she would beg me to take her home.’
Lucy nodded. ‘I’m not Hannah! I like the work very well, and . . . and I like this cause very well, if it can succeed without bloodshed! You are not risking me: I am risking myself.’
Thomas considered that for a long, uneasy minute. Then he drew a deep breath and nodded. ‘Well, then, I’ll tell the others you’ll attend after your cousin has left London.’
Cousin Geoffrey left the following week. A daily attendance at Westminster and a heavy expenditure in bribes had failed to get him the strip of land and at last he gave up and went home. Ned, who listened with interest to Lucy’s account of the matter, said probably a Parliament-man had his eye on the land. Geoffrey, however, blamed Thomas.
‘This is what comes of rebellion!’ he muttered angrily, as he mounted his mare on a wet Monday morning. He glowered at Thomas from the saddle and added, ‘I will tell them at home how you fare, Uncle!’ He made the polite words a threat.
Thomas was distressed: he loved his brother, Geoffrey’s father, and was afraid of a breach; he was also frightened of Daniel Wentnor, despite Lucy’s assurances.
Lucy, however, was simply relieved to see the back of Geoffrey. Even if she’d been inclined to worry about what he’d say, she had little time for it. The flow of print had continued unabated, and in the middle of it they’d had to move the press.
The carriage house of The Whalebone had never been intended as more than a stopgap printworks: the authorities were well aware of the tavern’s clientele. The only reason the press had been located there at all was that The Whalebone had been searched immediately beforehand and it would be a month or two before anyone searched again. The ‘common council’ meeting which discussed Lucy’s attendance had also settled on a new location for the press. This was a disused barn outside the city wall by Bishopsgate, over towards the parkland of Moorfields. It was immediately beyond Bedlam – Bethlehem Hospital for lunatics – which meant any casual traffic was disguised by people coming to gape at the madmen.
The barn was only a ten-minute walk
from The Whalebone, but moving the press was still a huge task. It was too big and heavy to travel in one piece: it had to be taken apart, loaded on a cart, driven to its new home and then put back together again. The actual move was done using a dray borrowed from a brewery. Lucy packed up the cases of type, paper and ink, took down the drying lines and helped to disassemble the press. It was heavy work and left her with a sore back and a torn fingernail. She was glad of the nagging aches, though: it distracted her from the prospect of working alone in a barn. She’d been unable to do that since she went to milk the cows early one morning, two years before.
Ned was in the thick of the move: he borrowed the dray and drove it out to Bishopsgate in the evening, its incriminating load concealed under a stack of empty beer barrels. The next morning he turned up early at the barn and helped to reassemble the press before rushing off to put in a day’s work at his tavern. He paused only to speak to Lucy. He handed her the key for the padlock that was to secure the barn door and said, ‘Come back to the tavern at dinner-time. You’ll be in need of a hot dinner, working here!’
She was relieved: the prospect of The Whalebone at dinner-time would distract her from being alone in a barn – and, what was more, next door to Bedlam. The thought of finding an escaped lunatic terrified her.
When Ned had gone, she made herself walk right round the barn, checking that it was indeed empty. The place was draughty, damp and, worst of all, dark. The only way to get decent light was to leave the door open, but the spring continued cold and wet, and opening the door meant letting in the wind and rain. The press had been set in the middle of the room, and she strung the drying lines behind and to the side of it, where they wouldn’t be rained on. She put the table and the cases of type against the wall near the door, though, protecting them with spoiled sheets of paper: she would need light for typesetting. She could already tell that that was going to be a miserable job here.
Setting up took her until noon, by which time it was raining hard. She padlocked the barn, then ran to The Whalebone with her shawl over her head. She entered in a rush, then paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimness. The tavern was dark and low-ceilinged. There was no fire burning on the hearth – it was, after all, May – but the room was crowded enough to feel warm after the cold outside. It smelled of unwashed bodies, dirty wet woollens, beer and stale tobacco. It was about half full; most of the customers were men but, to her relief, there were also a few women. A vaguely familiar older woman in an apron came over to her and asked, ‘What do you lack?’
‘I . . .’ began Lucy, then stopped, unsure how to answer. ‘Is Ned here?’
The woman looked at her more closely. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ The business-like attention dissolved into a warm smile. ‘Well met at last! I’m Nancy Shorby; I’ve been here since old Mr Trebet’s day. Ned’s fetching beer from the cellar but he’ll be up again in a moment. You come into the kitchen and sit down by the fire!’
‘What’s that?’ called one of the customers. ‘Ned’s sweetheart?’
‘Never you mind if it is!’ replied Nancy and bustled Lucy through another doorway and into the warmth and comparative brightness of a large kitchen. ‘Rafe! Sarah! See who’s here!’ The cook and another serving-maid, their faces familiar but their names previously unknown, turned from their work and came over smiling. The warm welcome made Lucy very uneasy, but she rubbed her ink-stained hands on her apron and smiled and exchanged greetings.
‘We’ve all been agog to meet you,’ the younger serving-maid confessed.
‘But Ned, the scoundrel, kept you all to himself,’ said the cook.
Lucy smiled weakly and was spared the need to reply by Ned himself, who came up the stairs from the cellar, carrying a barrel. He beamed when he saw Lucy. ‘Here you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘The sight of you is as good as a rest. Nan, get her some dinner. I’ll be back anon!’ He hurried through into the tavern’s common room with the beer.
He returned while Nancy was ladling out Lucy’s stew. ‘All’s well? Nancy, Rafe and Sarah have made themselves known to you? Fine people, all of them; Nancy’s worked here since I was but a boy.’ He turned to Nancy. ‘Nan, the party in the panelled room want more bread.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Nancy and hurried off.
Ned settled Lucy in a corner of the kitchen, asked about the press, then rushed off to draw more beer. His staff hurried in and out: it seemed that The Whalebone was popular. Rafe, the only one fixed in the kitchen, told her the tavern had eight private rooms and two common ones, and that at least half were full every afternoon. The tavern was thriving, he told her, with a meaningful smile, but would do better still if it had a mistress. They’d been waiting for Mr Trebet to find one ever since the war ended.
She felt sick. She bolted the rest of her dinner and got up. Ned, on his way back through the kitchen to fetch more beer, gave her a startled look and cried, ‘You’re not going so soon?’
She ducked her head. ‘I must. We’re two days behind and still not ready to print.’
Walking back to the cold barn through the rain, she found herself furiously angry. It was clear enough that Ned’s sweetheart was exactly what Ned’s staff thought she was. What right had he to give them such a notion? She ought to demonstrate that she wasn’t: she ought to stay away from The Whalebone in future.
It would mean packing herself a cold dinner and eating it alone in the cold barn – if she had enough appetite to eat at all, with her stomach in knots.
It was absurd! If she’d been a man, there would have been no trouble: she could have gone to sit in the warm kitchen, talking and laughing, and nobody would suppose she owed them anything, but because she was a girl – and, worse, a pretty girl – she was expected to pay her way with kisses!
She imagined being kissed by Ned. Part of her was curious, even eager, but part of her recoiled, remembering the soldiers and her own frantic struggles, the violence and the pain . . .
She stopped in the street, telling herself that it was the rain running down her face that made her eyes sting so. Spoiled goods.
Oh, why should she blame Ned Trebet? His intentions were undoubtedly honourable, as far as they’d yet taken shape. He was a young man with a bit of property who needed a wife. He’d met a young woman – pretty, hard-working, a fellow-believer in a cause dear to his heart. Obviously he was thinking about her! Your father has a dairy farm, freehold. Will told me. She should have taken good note of that: he had spoken to Will about whether her family had enough money to make her a suitable match.
If he knew, though, that she was no maiden and that her dowry had gone to buy cows, would he want her then?
From nearby came a shriek and then a long desperate wail, and she glanced up in surprise and saw that she was next to Bedlam hospital. She shuddered and hurried on back to the barn and the work waiting for her.
The next two days were miserable. She did not go to The Whalebone for dinner but ate bread and butter alone beside the press. The various people who’d come to help her with the machinery – or, like Liza, to talk – didn’t make the additional walk over to the barn, and she was left on her own. Operating the press by herself was as exhausting as she’d feared, and she had to keep stopping for a rest. She became expert in checking the bolts and greasing the slides.
The following evening, however, was a Thursday, the day of the ‘council meeting’. She didn’t go back to Southwark but met Uncle Thomas in the City instead. He said it would save her walking across the bridge and back again, though they both knew that the real advantage was that it postponed the argument with Aunt Agnes.
It was after supper when they arrived, and growing dark, but the common room of the tavern was better lit than it had been the rainy afternoon when she first visited, and busier. Tallow candles on sconces about the walls cast a warm yellow light over a dense crowd of men and women. Lucy noticed a thin, tired-looking woman, heavily pregnant, sitting in a chair in the middle of the room; she later learned that this was Elizabeth Lilbu
rne, Freeborn John’s wife. (She was permitted to visit her husband and even to stay the night; when the baby was born, it was christened ‘Tower’.) Next to her sat a round-shouldered older man, and behind them stood a crop-haired soldier in a cavalryman’s buff-leather coat, with a sword and a pistol in his belt. Nearby, an elderly lady in a lace-trimmed collar was talking to a young man with a notebook; over at the side was another young soldier, this one elegantly dressed, with long dark locks and an officer’s sash. He was talking to a slim gentleman in a fine blue coat and lace ruff.
Ned hurried over to them, looking anxious. ‘Lucy!’ he said; then, quickly, ‘Mr Stevens, you are welcome. Lucy, I . . . never mind; we’ll speak after. Will you have a draught?’
They accepted mugs of beer and squeezed into places on a tavern bench just as the crop-haired soldier rapped on the table and the room fell quiet.
‘We’ve a deal of business tonight,’ said the soldier briskly, ‘so let’s not delay!’
The older man got to his feet; he was tall and heavily built, but his wide face was exceptionally gentle. ‘Thank you, Mr Sexby,’ he said, with a polite nod to the soldier. ‘My friends, let us take a moment to beseech God’s guidance on our counsels!’
Everyone bowed his or her head. ‘Oh God, let us “walk circumspectly”,’ said the big man, ‘“not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil”.’
Some of the ‘Amens’ which greeted this were fervent, some perfunctory. Lucy, glancing round the faces, wondered what they believed in, beyond the need to reform the government. Many would be sectaries – Anabaptists and Brownists, who had the most to lose if religious toleration was denied. She wasn’t sure what Anabaptists believed but she knew her Calvinist father abominated them. The thought of how angry he would be if he knew she was here was oddly cheering.
‘My friends,’ the big man began, ‘I fear the news is bad. As most of you have heard, Parliament commanded our last petition to be burned by the public hangman. We must petition again, but I fear that there is little hope of a better outcome unless we have means to win Parliament’s attention.’
London in Chains Page 8