London in Chains

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Lucy walked slowly back to Coleman Street at dawn, Paul’s letter in her apron pocket and the package of silk tucked under her arm. Ten yards of rose-coloured Damascus tabby at seventeen shilllings a yard: eight pounds and ten shillings’ worth of silk. More than half a year’s worth of the good wage she was getting now. When had Thomas bought it? Had it been in the loft all the time she slept there?

  Probably it had. Probably he’d bought it before the war when he was rich and put it aside when the struggle ruined the market for such things, then decided at last, in his soft-hearted way, that it would do for his niece’s wedding gown.

  The thought of how Thomas must have imagined her wearing the silk gave her a twinge of guilt: she already knew that she was never going to make a gown of this beautiful, impractical stuff. No: she was going to sell it, though she’d cut off a little first, to remember Uncle Thomas by. Hard cash was a lot more useful than a gown she’d wear only once.

  She was so numbed by what had happened that she didn’t remember Paul’s letter until halfway through the day, when she felt a paper in her pocket and took it out to see what it was. It did not make pleasant reading.

  My deare Sister,

  Oure cozen Nat and Aunt Agnes have used you ill, sending you to lodge with Strangers, & I blush thatt oure Father wille not stirr himselfe in your defens. I have spoke to him, & tolde him itt is shame to alle oure Familie, & he shd goe himself to Lundun & fetch you home, but he saies it is no Tyme of Yeare to travelle, & you are well wher you are. I will come myself whenne I can, but I think it will not bee this moneth, for no bodie is going to Lundun this moneth. I feare you must bee payshent and I pray you suffer no ill.

  The newe Cowes doe very well, for they were so fewe that wee had ample pasture for them dispyte the ill weather alle the Yeare. Cheese is six Pence the Pounde, so we are well, and it is God’s mercie, and yet the Haye is mouldie and we must be oute turning it every Daye. I pray God keep you well.

  Yr. loving Brother Paul

  Lucy’s first thought was that Paul couldn’t have received her own letter when he wrote, but then she realized he must have, because Nat Cotman’s letter had assumed that Lucy would lodge with him until she could be fetched home. She groaned, set the letter down and glared at it. How could Paul have managed to read her letter and still come away with the conclusion that she needed to be rescued?

  She wrote a reply that evening, though she knew it wouldn’t leave London until the following week: that week’s post north had already left.

  Agnes clung to life for another two days before she finally succumbed to her pneumonia. Arrangements were made for her to be taken back to Southwark so that she could be buried beside her husband. Lucy was invited to the funeral and endured another long-winded mumble from the St Olave’s preacher before Agnes’s shrouded body was lowered into the earth beside Thomas’s. The thought of those two lying together for all eternity made her queasy. She told herself repeatedly that earthly concerns were left behind by those who’d entered Paradise, but she still had trouble imagining an imperishable Agnes, purged of all greed and selfishness. Perhaps, she thought, Thomas, who’d known the carefree girl, would find it easier.

  There was no general funeral feast after Agnes’s burial any more than after her husband’s, but there was to be a dinner for the family, to which Lucy was invited. The Cotmans had hired a coach to carry the body to Southwark and had ridden in it themselves – neither Nat nor Hannah was recovered enough to walk so far – and Lucy rode back in it with them.

  It was the twenty-fourth of December – Christmas Eve, if Christmas had been permitted. The streets were busy. Lucy had taken a day off work, much to Nedham’s annoyance, and she enjoyed travelling in the coach, looking out at the bustle of people on foot. When they crossed London Bridge she noticed that the entrance to the church of St Magnus the Martyr had been decorated with rosemary and holly. She pointed it out to Nat, who frowned at it. ‘Godless idolatry!’ he said severely. ‘I wonder it’s permitted!’

  ‘I doubt it is,’ said Lucy. She felt uneasy: if the authorities tried to clear the Christmas decorations away, there would probably be violence.

  As they rode eastward through the City, they passed more churches decorated for Christmas, but when they got to Stepney the greenery vanished: the suburb had long been a stronghold of the godly. The coach stopped by the Cotmans’ house, and Nat climbed down stiffly and paid the driver.

  Some of Nat Cotman’s kin had offered to prepare the dinner while the family attended the burial, so Lucy was not surprised to find the house unlocked and full of people. She was shocked speechless, however, when she walked into the parlour and found Paul sitting there – with her father beside him.

  She hadn’t seen her father for what felt like a whole lifetime. In her mind he was always a tall, stern, frightening figure, and it was strange and disturbing to see him sitting beside Paul and realize that he was a scrawny man of no more than average height, with greying hair and a lined face. His clothes were plain and travel-worn, and he looked nothing at all to be afraid of.

  Daniel and Paul Wentnor both got to their feet when Lucy’s party came into the room and stood respectfully holding their hats. Nat Cotman stared at them in bewilderment: he had met Paul only briefly and had never met Daniel at all. Nat’s sister Deborah emerged from the kitchen and said, ‘Nat, these two arrived but ten minutes ago. They say they’re kin to the Stevenses.’

  ‘My father, Daniel Wentnor,’ whispered Lucy by way of introduction, ‘and my brother Paul.’

  ‘Well,’ said Nat, rocking back on his heels and regarding the pair warily. ‘You’re too late for the funeral.’

  Paul cleared his throat nervously. ‘We–we had no notion of it. We came to fetch my sister home.’

  Nat shot a quick glance at Lucy; apparently satisfied by what he saw on her face, he declared, ‘She told me very plain she’d no wish to leave London, and she borrowed threepence of me so that she could write and tell you the same.’

  ‘It is not fit for her to live with strangers in this terrible city!’ proclaimed Daniel; the sound of that familiar harsh voice sent a shiver through Lucy.

  ‘You must take that up with her, then,’ said Nat. ‘I writ you, as you know, asking you to fetch her from my house, but she had other ideas.’ He glanced round and noticed that Hannah was leaning weakly against the doorpost. He took her arm and steered her over to the bench by the parlour fire, where she sat down heavily.

  Nat seated himself beside her and turned back towards Paul and Daniel. ‘Sirs, my poor wife miscarried but a fortnight ago, and we are both newly recovered from the smallpox. Our house is in no state to entertain guests. Had you writ to ask if you might come, I’d have advised you to wait.’

  Paul ducked his head in uncomfortable apology. ‘We beg your pardon, sir. We knew nothing of these afflictions.’

  ‘We will take Lucy and go,’ said Daniel.

  Nat frowned at him a moment. ‘You’re kin, of a sort,’ he conceded, ‘and fresh-come from the road, to judge by the state of your clothes. You’re welcome to stay for dinner.’

  ‘We will not trespass further on your house,’ replied Daniel stiffly: that remark about arriving uninvited had stung him. ‘I am heartily sorry for your afflictions, sir. Lucy, come.’

  Lucy stood frozen where she was. She had a horrible vision of being bundled straight into a cart and driven directly back to Hinckley. ‘Sir,’ she said and swallowed. She had no right, in law or custom, to refuse a direct order from her father.

  Maybe she had a natural right.

  ‘Sir,’ she said again and found her voice small but calm, ‘My cousins had kindly invited me to dine with them. For me to walk out when the meat is almost on the board is discourtesy.’

  ‘For us to walk in is worse,’ replied Daniel. ‘And, truth to tell, their hospitality has been somewhat lacking.’

  Nat sat up straight in offence.

  ‘Sir!’ protested Lucy. ‘I know that you and Paul feel th
at they should have had me to lodge with them, but, as I tried to explain, the blame for that must lie with me, not them.’

  ‘Aye!’ agreed Daniel with a hard stare.

  A year before a stare like that would have made something inside her curl up in shame; today it just made her angry. ‘And I did nothing wrong, neither!’ Lucy told him, her voice rising. ‘I was offered lodging by friends of my uncle, honest and godly people. I keep myself by honest work!’

  ‘Honest work!’ spat Daniel in contempt.

  ‘Aye, honest work! Printing!’ She held up her hands, showing him her ink-stained fingers. ‘A trade that flourishes here in London! You sent me here. What did you think would become of me? Or did you not care, as long as you never had to look at me again? I’ll have you know I’ve done well here! I learned a trade; I made friends; I am treated with kindness and honour by all around me! I am happy – as I was not, sir, in your house! Why must you come here to put a stop to it and drag me off to a place where I don’t wish to be, nor you to have me?’

  Daniel stared at her in consternation.

  ‘Peace, Cousin!’ said Hannah in distress. She started to get to her feet, and Lucy hurried to her and made her sit down again. ‘Peace!’ Hannah said again, leaning back against the chimneypiece. ‘It’s not fitting to speak thus to your father!’

  Lucy glanced back at Daniel unrepentantly. She felt light-headed, almost exhilirated: she had finally spoken her mind to him. A reply that it was fit he hear the truth was in her throat, but she checked it. What she’d already said was a monstrous defiance: if she made it any worse, he’d feel he had no choice except to beat her.

  ‘Lucy,’ said Paul, ‘don’t you see it’s different now? Da’s come all this long way to fetch you home!’

  That was, certainly, a new and surprising development, but Lucy did not for a moment believe that her father’s presence was occasioned by love. Paul had nagged him until he was ashamed to leave his daughter dependent on strangers. Neither he nor Paul could credit that she wasn’t dependent at all. ‘I don’t want to go!’ Lucy replied. ‘God is my witness, I told you as much, last summer and again in my letter!’

  ‘This is a most strange defiance!’ said Daniel, recovering his voice. ‘Lucy, you are to come away with us. Now.’

  Lucy stood facing him a moment, her head high. She would not go back to Hinckley: she was determined on that.

  Then she glanced at poor, worried Hannah, and at Nat, who was furiously indignant. The Cotmans’ parlour, in front of Nat’s guests, was not the place to fight it out. She turned to Nat and curtsied. ‘I am sorry, sir, that I am obliged by my duty to my father to be so discourteous to you as to leave suddenly. I trust you know I mean no disrespect to you and Hannah, or to my Aunt.’

  Daniel flinched, opened his mouth as though to protest, then closed it again.

  ‘Cousin Hannah, I pray you quickly recover your health,’ Lucy said. She gave Hannah a quick hug, then wrapped her shawl around herself and made for the door. Her brother and father followed her out.

  Sixteen

  The day was overcast and icy, with a cold wind blowing from the river. Lucy began walking westward with quick determined steps.

  Paul hurried up from behind her. ‘Where are you going?’ he panted.

  She turned to face him. ‘To my lodgings, Paul! Surely you don’t mean to carry me off without so much as a change of linen?’ She fixed her eyes challengingly on her father, who stood at Paul’s shoulder. ‘Mr and Mrs Overton have been very good to me. Is it your intention to have me leave them without a word, so that they must run hither and yon seeking what’s become of me? That would be a cruel trick to play on those who never did you any harm!’

  ‘That was never my intention!’ protested Daniel. He was bewildered now. He had come to London expecting to find his daughter shamed and broken and needy. He couldn’t understand why things were so different.

  ‘Then, sir, I will go home and explain to them that, notwithstanding the agreements we made for bed and board and rent-money, I must return suddenly to Hinckley. If they ask what urgent need brings me there, I will say: none! But my father has a whim, and therefore willy-nilly I must go!’

  ‘I wrote to you to say I would take you home!’ said Paul, before Daniel could think of a response.

  ‘Aye, and sent the letter to our cousin’s house! I never saw your letter before last week! Why didn’t you send it to the Overtons’? I’d given you their direction!’

  ‘I’d never met them! How could I know that our cousins were ill with smallpox?’

  ‘And therefore you couldn’t wait until you’d received an answer?’

  ‘You are grown very proud,’ broke in Daniel forbiddingly.

  Lucy met his eyes. ‘Not so proud as to hate my bloodkin because they were injured and brought low. Sir, when I was broken and in need of your aid, you sent me away. God gave me a new life here, and why you should come to take it from me and break me again, I cannot understand.’

  Daniel stared at her in shocked confusion. She waited for a reply but none came. She turned on her heel and set out again.

  She walked quickly, and Paul and Daniel, unfamiliar with the city, struggled to keep up. She thought to wonder how they’d come to Stepney. Presumably they’d travelled to London with a cart or on horseback but stabled their animals before setting out to find the Cotmans’ house. Given the time of day, they might well have arrived in the city the previous evening – in which case they had a room at an inn somewhere. They’d want to spend the night there: it was already too late in the day to set out again. Good. She had at least overnight to work on them.

  They re-entered the City of London on Aldgate Street; Lucy led them on past Leadenhall Market, heading back to Coleman Street, all the while desperately pondering how to persuade them to go away and leave her alone. She was not sure whether an introduction to the Overtons would help. On the one hand, they were obviously respectable people – a godly, hard-working married couple with three children; on the other hand, they were heretics. She was so engaged in thinking how she might persuade them to skate over this latter fact that she wasn’t watching for trouble as she usually did. The riot was on top of them before she noticed it was there.

  As they approached the junction where Leadenhall Street became Cornhill, there was a sudden roar from somewhere in front of them, and then all at once there were people running towards them.

  Jolted abruptly alert, Lucy glanced around, then bolted for the nearest doorway. A gang of men in padded jerkins ran past. For a moment there was a snarling tangle in the road before her, and then they were gone, pelting off in the direction of Leadenhall Market. Another group was coming after them – young men with holly in their hats, waving staves and clubs, whooping with excitement. There was an obstacle in the road before them.

  Lucy suddenly realized that the obstacle was Paul and her father, crouched in the mud of the road. Most of the holly-decked men ran past them, but a couple hesitated, ready to swoop on the strangers. Lucy pushed herself away from the wall. ‘Let them be!’ she screamed.

  Startled faces looked round at her. The men were even younger than she’d first thought, well under twenty. Apprentices, she realized: the group of Londoners always most inclined to riot. One of them started to jeer.

  ‘They’re strangers to London!’ she shouted before they could swagger their way to doing harm. ‘That’s my father! The men you were chasing knocked him down!’ – because Daniel was indeed on his hands and knees in the filth of Leadenhall Street.

  The apprentices had another look at Daniel. Then one of them caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘Here, Grandad!’ he said cheerfully. ‘You need to watch where you’re going when you’re in London!’ He led Daniel over to the side of the road, then gave Lucy a broad grin. ‘Merry Christmas, sweeting!’ He and his friend ran off along Leadenhall Street after the others.

  Daniel sagged against the wall; to her horror, she saw that blood was streaming from a cut o
n his head. Paul stumbled over, holding their father’s hat in both hands, and gave Lucy a stunned look.

  ‘Da!’ cried Lucy.

  Daniel groaned and slid down to sit against the wall. He put both hands to his bleeding head.

  Lucy ran to him, then crouched down beside him and tried to examine the cut. There was already so much blood that she couldn’t see how bad it was, and Daniel wouldn’t move his hands out of the way.

  ‘Oh, oh!’ cried Paul. ‘He’s hurt, he’s bleeding!’

  ‘Where is your inn?’ demanded Lucy.

  Paul stared stupidly.

  ‘We need to get him off the street!’ said Lucy impatiently. ‘Do you have an inn here in London? Is it close by?’

  ‘The Nag’s Head,’ said Paul, understanding. ‘I–I don’t think it’s far away.’

  There was a Nag’s Head in Cheapside; it was four or five streets away, about the same distance as Coleman Street – and both destinations were the other side of Cornhill, the direction the rioters had come from. The street around them was empty now, but the air was full of the sound of shouting, angry and ugly and not very far away. Lucy hurried to the middle of the street and stared towards Cornhill: yes, there was a big crowd there. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t over yet. It might well shed more trouble down Leadenhall Street.

  ‘We can’t go that way,’ she told Paul. She tried to think. They could try to go round Cornhill to the north, but that would take them a long way round – not an easy distance for an injured man. It would be better just to take Daniel to the nearest inn or tavern, where they could see to his injury and wait until the trouble was over. She looked up and down the road and spotted an inn-sign a short distance away, back the way they’d come. She pointed it out to Paul, then went back to her father.

  Daniel was now slumped over with his back against the wall, still clutching his head. The blood had covered his hands and dripped through his fingers to make damp patches on his muddy breeches. ‘Da?’ she said, but he didn’t respond. Her heart began to beat very fast: his injury was even worse than she’d first thought. She found a handkerchief and managed to get it under his hands on to the cut, pressed it down to stop the bleeding, then looked around for something to tie it with. Paul was no help: he just stood there gaping, still holding Daniel’s hat. Her father had a scarf wrapped round his neck, though. She pulled it off. He made an angry noise and tried to take it back.