‘You have that, in us,’ said the crop-haired soldier, Sexby.
‘Oh, you and your friends in Saffron Walden have indeed won Parliament’s full attention,’ said the blue-coated gentleman in a dry voice. ‘But I fear that my colleagues are of two minds. While I and the more sensible part favour making concessions – as you saw at the start of the month – Mr Holles and his friends are outraged at your defiance. They believe that if they cannot bring you to heel, no gentleman in all England will ever again be master of his own servants, and they are determined to put you down. They have proposed an ordinance to win them control of the London militia.’ There was a stir through the room, and he raised his hand and went on, ‘The new Militia Ordinance – which I have no doubt will pass – takes control of the Militia Committee away from Parliament, and grants it instead to the Common Council of the City of London – a body which, as I am sure you’re all well aware, is entirely in the hands of good Presbyterian friends of Mr Holles, and, unlike the Commons, untroubled by inconvenient Independents such as myself.’
‘Common Council was unjustly stolen from the people!’ said Sexby angrily. ‘Taken over by the rich, in defiance of the ancient charters of London!’
‘Aye, as our friend John Lilburne has shown!’ agreed the gentleman. ‘But we need a solution to the difficulty, not a history!’
A familiar voice spoke out: Lucy recognized it, with pleasure, as Ned Trebet’s. ‘Common Council may appoint as they please: the militias won’t obey! Why should we fight our brother-soldiers to keep Holles and his friends in the saddle?’
‘I hope you may be right,’ said the gentleman seriously.
‘I am sure of it!’ said Ned. ‘My men don’t trust Common Council!’
‘Aye, but they’re your men, Ned,’ said the dark-haired officer. ‘What of all the other militia men in London?’
‘The sheets we print are taken up all over the city!’ protested Ned. ‘The men of London can read the truth for themselves. They will not be belied into war!’
There was a ripple of pleasure, then of applause.
‘Well said, Mr Trebet!’ said the big man. ‘But let us not be complacent. You speak of what we print when we have but one press left in the city, and the Stationers’ men are hunting for that. We must keep it safe. You moved it this week, did you not?’
‘Aye.’ Ned hesitated, looking around the room, then gestured towards Lucy. ‘And here is Mr Stevens’ niece, Mistress Lucy Wentnor, who has been working it for us, despite all dangers!’
At that everyone looked at Lucy. She got up and made a little curtsey, her face burning.
‘Welcome!’ said the big man, smiling at her. He had little white peg-teeth with large gaps between them, but the smile was kind. ‘We are grateful to you, Mistress Wentnor. I am William Walwyn; I hope the rest of us will make ourselves known to you as they have occasion to speak. How is the press? Is there anything you lack?’
Lucy felt breathless: she’d never had to speak in front of so many strangers. ‘The press is safe, sir,’ she said – then realized that there were things she lacked. ‘But I need help with it, sir. When it was here at The Whalebone, Ned came often to help with it, and Tim, and Mr Browne, but now no one comes, and it’s very heavy. Also, when I must both ink and work the press, it makes for slow work, so I hope you can find some help.’
‘Fairly spoken,’ said Walwyn. ‘What help do you need?’
She’d expected to have to plead; having her words accepted so quickly threw her, but only for a moment. ‘Just someone strong, sir. It needn’t be anyone who knows printing. I can set the type and make up the pamphlets; it’s only that the press is so heavy. It needn’t be the same person helping all the day or all the week. It might be many different men, each coming for an hour or two.’
‘Hold a moment!’ It was the elegant officer again. ‘How long would the press be safe, with a new printer coming to it every hour, as though they were going to see a monster at a fair? Won’t the neighbours remark it?’
‘It’s over near Bedlam!’ protested the man with the notebook. Several people cried, ‘Hush!’ and ‘Don’t speak of it!’ He looked chagrined.
‘Captain Wildman is right,’ said a stocky man decidedly. ‘We must do nothing to attract notice to the press, and too many visitors might do that, wherever it is.’
‘We should find one steady man who can arrive and depart quietly,’ said Wildman. He glanced about. ‘We will have to pay a wage.’
‘I am sure we might find volunteers . . .’ began the man with the notebook.
‘Aye, we would find many among us willing to help on the press for nothing,’ agreed Wildman, ‘providing they can do so for an hour here and there and still continue their livelihood. But we need but one, and we cannot expect that one to live upon air. This is no time to shave pennies! The press is our bastion against the Militia Ordinance that Mr Marten warns of. I move that we set up a fund for it.’
‘Seconded!’ cried the stocky man.
‘Captain Wildman moves that we establish a fund for the press,’ said Walwyn; ‘Mr Petty seconds. All in favour?’
All around the room, people raised their hands; after a moment’s hesitation, the man with the notebook raised his, too.
‘Carried,’ said Walwyn.
‘What sum shall I set down?’ asked the notebook-man.
‘What does it cost to run a press?’ Wildman asked.
The notebook-man was flummoxed; the old lady in the lace collar touched his arm. ‘Sam, my dear, you must remember how much paper costs, after all the to-do we had about A New Year’s Gift! And I think apprentice printers commonly earn sixpence a day.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ said the notebook-man and scribbled rapidly. ‘If we rate Mistress Wentnor and her assistant as apprentices both, we might manage on fourteen shillings a week.’ He looked up. ‘Are we planning to defray the cost by selling the sheets or are we to distribute them free?’
‘Sell them,’ said another man firmly. ‘At least at first. The money from sales one week can be added to the press fund the following week, and the amount disbursed from common funds reduced accordingly. If, later on, we choose to distribute a sheet without charge, we merely pay nothing back the following week.’
Sam the notebook-man nodded and made another note. ‘Thank you, Tom. Mistress Wentnor, can you keep accounts?’
‘Aye, a little,’ she said, floundering. ‘I managed our dairy in Leicestershire. But–but, sir, I’m paid tuppence a day!’
‘Well, that will save money!’ exclaimed Wildman with satisfaction.
The old lady tut-tutted. ‘That is most unjust!’ She looked around the room. ‘Would any of you do such work for tuppence a day?’
‘A woman has not the same need of wages as a man,’ said Wildman.
Sam laughed; his mother rose to her feet and stalked over to the young officer. She barely came up to his chin but she glared up at him, hands on hips. ‘Has a woman no need to eat, young man? The girl can no more live on air than can this man you wish to hire!’
‘I meant only that it is her father’s duty to provide for her,’ replied Wildman, taken aback. ‘Or her uncle’s.’
‘So is it a master’s duty to provide for his servant! If your servant goes to work for some other man, will you continue his upkeep, or will you tell him to get his wages where he serves? If Mistress Wentnor were not engaged on our press, I have no doubt that she would be helping Mr Stevens. You men! You rate a woman’s work as worthless, until you try to hire a man to do it!’
‘Peace, Kate, peace!’ said Walwyn with a wide smile. ‘You have poor Captain Wildman on the mat, fair; let him up now!’ He glanced round. ‘I, for my part, do not doubt that in permitting Mistress Wentnor to work for tuppence Mr Stevens was making a sacrifice: he has ever been a generous friend. The young woman certainly deserves sixpence a day, particularly if she must now keep accounts in addition to all she did before.’
‘Seconded,’ said someone.
‘All in favour?’ asked Walwyn. There was another show of hands. ‘Very well: Mistress Wentnor to continue in charge of the press, at sixpence a day; another worker to be found to help her. Captain Wildman?’
‘I have a man in mind,’ said Wildman hopefully. ‘James Hudson, formerly a soldier in my troop, well-affected and eager for the good of the Commonwealth. He was maimed at Naseby-fight and has relied since on what work his friends have been able to find for him. I will vouch for his honesty and discretion.’
‘Very good,’ said Walwyn. ‘All in favour? Captain Wildman to approach James Hudson to assist with the press for sixpence a day; Mr Chidley to set aside fourteen shillings a week, less returns, and the press to be our bastion against the Militia Ordinance!’
The meeting went on for some time after that, but Lucy found herself continually distracted by the thought that she would get sixpence a day; three shilllings a week! Her mind filled with agreeable dilemmas: should she wait until she had enough to buy a new gown, get one second-hand, or buy some cloth from Uncle Thomas and make it up herself? Would it be better to buy a lace-trimmed collar or some silk ribbons?
She was ashamed of her greedy enthusiasm. The rest of the talk was heady stuff, about the doings of friends and enemies in Parliament, about a letter Elizabeth Lilburne had taken to Cromwell from her husband; about the Army and the king. Nonetheless, the thought of that sixpence a day never entirely left her mind.
At last the meeting ended, with another prayer. Most of the men and women remained in their seats talking, but Thomas, anxious to get back to Southwark, touched Lucy’s arm and gestured towards the door.
They were on the doorstep when Ned Trebet reached them, his hands full of empty tankards. ‘Lucy!’ he panted. ‘Mr Stevens. A word with you, please!’
Thomas looked at him in surprise. Ned set his tankards down on the nearest table and said, ‘I’ll not delay you – here, I’ll set you on your way!’ He opened the door and led them out into the night.
It was overcast and drizzling. The Whalebone had a lantern above the door, but beyond it the street was dark, with only a distant glimmer at the corner showing that a householder on the lighting rota had set out a lamp. Ned reached up to unhook the lantern.
‘Nay!’ protested Thomas anxiously. ‘What will the others do?’
‘Fetch their own lights,’ replied Ned. He started along the street, holding up the lantern so they could pick their way around the puddles and the foul patches, and began speaking before they’d gone three steps. ‘You didn’t come at dinner-time today or yesterday, Lucy.’
‘There was too much to do,’ she replied.
‘Ah.’ Ned glanced warily at Thomas. ‘I thought perchance Rafe said something he shouldn’t have.’
Lucy was silent a little too long, trying to think how to respond, and Ned nodded. ‘I thought so.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘You need not take fright because of Rafe.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Thomas in confusion.
‘My cook, sir,’ replied Ned, ‘making free with my intentions towards your niece. Not that I . . . that is, it’s been only a short while since I met her, and I . . . I would have spoken to you before if . . .’
‘Don’t!’ cried Lucy, mortified, and Ned stopped and stared at her in surprise.
‘Lucy, what is this?’ asked Thomas.
‘Mr Trebet’s cook hinted that his master wanted a wife, and I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Oh!’ Thomas stared in amazement from Lucy to Ned.
Ned grimaced. ‘My cook said more than he should, sir; yet I confess that—’
‘Stop!’ Lucy drew a deep breath. ‘Ned, I’m all but dowerless. You can do much better for yourself. You should know that, before you say anything more.’ She hoped she wouldn’t have to admit that a dowry wasn’t all she’d lost.
Ned stared at her blankly a moment, then shot a questioning look at Thomas. ‘I’d heard her father had a dairy farm!’
‘He does,’ admitted Thomas, ‘but all his cattle were driven off and he spent his daughter’s dowry replacing them. As for me, I–I cannot afford to supply my brother’s lack. It was struggle enough to satisfy my own son-in-law last year.’
There was another silence. They reached the corner and stopped there. ‘I am very sorry for it,’ said Ned at last. His tone was heavy.
For some reason Lucy was more moved by that than by his flustered half-proposal. She touched his shoulder. ‘So am I.’ She took Thomas’s arm. ‘Uncle, we must get home!’
She and Thomas walked in silence almost as far as London Bridge, picking their way carefully along the dark, foul street. The bridge, however, was well lit, rain-blurred lanterns outside the door of every fourth house and candles in many of the windows. The light shimmered on the dark water of the river below.
‘You might have kept your peace about the dowry,’ Thomas said suddenly. ‘If he’d learned of it after he’d asked for you, he might have taken you without one.’
‘That would ill return his kindness,’ replied Lucy. ‘He’s a man that might marry fifty pounds. I’d not have him marry for shame and repent the day after.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Thomas, dissatisfied. After a moment he added, ‘I am still sorry to see you lose such an opportunity. He’s a fine young man, and . . . well, I wonder sometimes what will become of you.’
‘Aunt Agnes will be mightily pleased to get two shillings a week,’ Lucy said quickly.
Her uncle blinked. ‘How . . . oh! You mean to give her two shillings?’
Lucy hesitated. If she gave Agnes one shilling, it would still be an increase: surely Agnes would be satisfied?
Not if she knew Lucy was getting sixpence a day. Besides . . . ‘If we tell her that when we come in tonight, Uncle, she won’t be wroth with us and she won’t nag us about it.’
Thomas looked suddenly much happier. ‘That would be a mercy!’
Five
The elegant Captain Wildman turned up at the barn the following morning, bringing the new assistant. Lucy had been working the press, but when the two men arrived she stopped, rubbing her hands on her apron and staring speechlessly. James Hudson was a monster: a tall man, powerfully built but cadaverous – and horribly scarred. His right eye was missing, and the puckered socket was set into a florid mess of shiny pink and dull white skin. His right hand was similarly scarred, the first two fingers missing and the thumb reduced to a stub. His hair hung in matted ropes around his mutilated face, and he stank of brandy, sour beer and old piss. A cavalry sabre hung at his side.
Wildman merely nodded to Lucy; when he spoke, it was to his protégé. ‘There you are, Jamie! That’s the press.’
‘Who’s the wench?’ asked Hudson. His voice was a hoarse growl.
‘The niece of a Southwark mercer, one of our company,’ replied Wildman. ‘She was helping Will Browne the bookseller, but he’s in Newgate, and she found the work too heavy, as I told you.’
Irritation gave Lucy her voice back. ‘I am in charge of the press, Captain Wildman!’
Wildman merely smiled. Hudson came over and touched the bed of the press with his good hand. ‘How does it work?’
Wildman regarded the press a moment. ‘I think you slide that bit in and out, and pull that handle to lower the screw.’
‘Out of the way, puss,’ Hudson ordered Lucy.
‘Nay,’ she said, suddenly hot with rage. She had asked for help, not a master! ‘If you’ve not worked a press before, you’re to listen to instruction before I give you leave to touch it!’
He turned his gargoyle face towards her, fixed her with a single bloodshot eye and gave her a horrible twisted leer. ‘Oho! You’ll give me leave to touch, will you, puss?’
‘Nay, then!’ she said, glaring back at him. ‘If you will not heed instruction, you can take yourself off – and if you won’t go, I will! For I’ll not be called wench and puss at my own press – and much joy may you have, trying to set type and stitch with that claw!’
The leer van
ished and the gargoyle head lowered, like that of a bull about to charge. ‘Peace, peace!’ cried Wildman, alarmed now. ‘There’s no call for that!’
‘Yes, there is!’ cried Lucy, rounding on him. ‘If your swill-bowl friend heaves too hard on that handle, he’ll crack the block, and then we’ll have no press; and if my uncle – a godly man! – heard him speak so lewdly, he’d forbid my coming here ever again, and we’d have no one to set type! There’s every call for me to protest: you could end printing here this month and more, all for want of more courtesy than would fit a sty!’
Wildman was flustered. ‘He meant no harm.’
‘And you, what did you mean?’ she demanded furiously. ‘You did not see fit even to tell him my name, let alone make it plain that I was given charge! You are more to blame than he is!’
‘I had forgot your name,’ admitted Wildman, ‘and I thought Will Browne had charge. I beg your pardon, Mistress . . .?’
‘Lucy Wentnor,’ she said coldly. ‘Captain Wildman, I was given charge of the press, whether you recollect it or not, and your friend should heed me because it is not so simple a matter as the pulling of a handle!’
‘You say if I pull too hard, I will crack . . . what?’ asked Hudson. The scarred face was turned towards her again, but the expression on the good half now seemed to be earnest and intent.
Lucy touched the block that contained the great wooden screw. ‘Too much pressure and this could crack – or even if it holds, you might damage the type, which is set here, see? I was told to take care, and how likely am I to strain it, compared to a great ox like you? This press has its quirks, too, of placing and working, which one must have regard to, or else damage it or what it prints.’
He stared uneasily at the press, and she saw that she’d won. Her anger faded and, as it did, her hands started to tremble. Anger always brought back the memories – and here she was, in a barn, with two soldiers. She refused to look at them, refused to think about the past. Instead, she caught hold of the press-bed and hauled it out from under the screw. She lifted the canvas-and-blanket covering and peeled the latest sheet off the forme.
London in Chains Page 9