The Wrecking Storm

by Ward, Michael

  He glanced at the news sheet, an absurd story claiming the Queen had visited the Commons, accusing MPs of treason. He told the lad it was untrue and ridiculous. It would never happen and, if it did, he would have witnessed it as an MP.

  Tom had seen dozens of stories like this, the more fanciful, the more they were believed. Nothing he could say would change this boy’s mind. The previous month he had found two of the staff at Bolton Hall reading a pamphlet claiming the Queen had bewitched the King through spells and potions to make him do her will. He told them is was rubbish. He could tell they didn’t believe him but didn’t want to argue with the master’s son.

  They left the apprentices with more advice to go home and continued to Westminster. Slowly, the road cleared and the noise diminished. Broken wood, stones and clumps of mud littered the surface. As they approached the Palace Yard, small groups of men were standing together, some injured.

  A guard from the House of Commons walked up to him. ‘I wouldn’t venture any further, Master Tallant, if I was you, sir. We’ve cleared out the vermin, but there might still be one or two in hiding,’

  ‘Who do you mean. What in God’s name has happened?’

  ‘Hundreds of those damn Apprentice Boys turned up, looking for trouble with their Lordships the bishops. They started to storm Westminster Hall but then turned their attention to the Abbey, threatening to pull down the altar and the organ. We kept them out but it was a near thing. They were breaking the front door to pieces when the scholars from Westminster College got on the roof and drove them away, throwing stones at them.

  ‘That was the signal for a group of armed men to charge the mob, while they were in disarray.’ The guard stopped and swallowed hard. ‘I don’t know who they were Mr. Tallant, or where they had come from, but to my mind those men were too hot, too eager, to draw their swords. They rode into the Apprentice Boys, slashing and stabbing, calling them round-headed dogs.’

  ‘Who do you think they were?’ Tom asked Petty.

  ‘Probably soldiers of fortune returned from fighting the Irish for the King and now seeking employment, and trouble.’

  ‘So, presumably, word of this attack has now spread and the people have turned out in force at Charing Cross to pay them back,’ said Tom. ‘My God, what a night this could be.’

  Petty nodded. ‘It’s not a time to be abroad on the street. There’s nothing we can do here. We must find a way back to your warehouse, warn the others and make sure it’s secure.’ and, wishing the guard well, they set off into the night.

  After half an hour skirting around the centre of London, they neared Thames Street. Suddenly, Petty slid to a halt. ‘Down!’ he hissed. They both took cover and surveyed the lane ahead. There was something blocking its entrance on to Thames Street, with men carrying flaming torches visible behind it.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s a barricade across the end of Pudding Lane,’ Petty whispered. ‘Damnation. That means there may also be trouble up at the Tower. We’ll have to try another way.’

  They slowly retraced their steps and turned down a narrow alley on their right. The shouting, curses and the occasional drunken laughter became louder as again they approached Thames Street. Tom began to worry about the warehouse. They reached the end and, turning right, ran straight into a group of men coming up from the river, led by a large, broad shouldered figure.

  ‘Aye, aye. What have we here? Two gentlemen out on the town?’ A man’s voice, threatening and surly, emanated from the dark. ‘Job, bring that light forward.’

  A small figure pushed through the group, carrying a branch of wood, one end wrapped in a burning rag. Tom recognised the familiar stink of burning tallow. There were six of them, some older than Apprentice Boys, and he sensed danger.

  Robert Petty stepped in front of Tom. ‘Yes, and we plan no trouble for you or your friends, so let us pass and we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Plan no trouble? I should think not. Only the two of you, and no blades I can see, which is all the better, eh lads?’ and as he spoke, the man slowly drew an old Rondel knife from his belt, the torchlight reflecting on its long blade and wicked pointed tip.

  Tom cursed his decision to leave his sword at the warehouse. He had not wanted to attract trouble but now it had found them. These men were clearly not apprentice rowdies full of ale and looking for a ruck.

  Their leader took the smoking torch and inspected Petty and Tom, who could now see the man’s badly pock marked face, framed by greasy straw-coloured hair. ‘Now, gentlemen. We are most grateful to our Puritan brothers for lately taking to the streets in increasing numbers. Normally I would regard this as a trespass on my territory, but I now see they provide cover for me and my boys to go about our business. Now we even carry a flame without notice, better to see who we’re turning over.’ The man laughed, a rasping sound like a whetstone sharpening a knife.

  ‘Well, you’re out of luck.’ Tom replied. ‘My friend and I have been to the local tavern but we never carry much coin at night, there are too many cutpurses in the city’s alehouses. The little we have you are welcome to, but if you want to make your fortune you’ll have to find other victims to prey on. So kindly let us pass.’

  Petty reached backward in the gloom and gripped his arm hard. Once Tom had started, a deadly mixture of fear and bravado had loosened his tongue, like a boy who had inexplicably decided to poke a bear in the eye. The leader’s face changed into a bleak smile. ‘Can you hear this Billy Boy. The young pup can bark!’ The gang laughed and a voice came out of the dark. ‘Teach him his place, Jack. You’d do him a service.’

  Petty leant back and whispered in his ear, his voice hoarse with tension. ‘What are you doing? When I move, follow me, and run for your life.’ The man momentarily glanced backward to talk to Billy Boy and Petty saw his chance. He leapt forward, punching Job hard in the face. The boy cried out and dropped the torch. In a second, Petty had grabbed the burning brand and buried its head into the leader’s wrist, pushing and twisting to make the burning tallow stick to his skin.

  The man dropped the knife, roaring in pain and slowly fell to his knees, gripping his right arm in agony. Petty grabbed Tom’s collar and propelled him up back up Botolph Street, away from the river. ‘Run!’ he screamed and they both took off. He could hear shouts behind him but, pushing his legs as fast as he could, did not slow down to look back.

  The outline of a church appeared near the end of the street. ‘Quick! Over here,’ Petty gasped. Tom followed down the side of the church into an overgrown graveyard, stumbling over lumps of fallen masonry. Petty grabbed his arm and pushed him under a tall gravestone that had fallen backwards against a wall. ‘Quick. Get in there. And don’t make a sound. Not even a breath, however long it takes until the danger passes.’ And with that he disappeared into the blackness.

  Tom crammed himself into the small space between the church wall and the gravestone, which acted as a sloping roof over his head. He strained his ears for any indication of the gang approaching above the shouts and laughter of Apprentice Boys roaming the streets. Surrounded by cold wet stone, his body began to shake.

  Approaching footsteps. No voices. It must be them - disciplined, not a rowdy mob. They came closer. He heard a rustling noise. Someone was slashing though the leaves on the ground with a sword or knife.

  A quiet voice broke the silence. ‘I told you that was a mistake, to put out the torch, Billy Boy. Now we can’t see a thing.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have dropped it in the first place. He pushed it into Jack, and the tallow was burning his arm! I had to shove him and the torch in the piss channel in the street, quick. You’ll not like it Job, when he thanks me for it, you whoreson.’

  The two lads continued their search for another twenty seconds before Billy Boy exclaimed: ‘This is hopeless. They could be half way to Fenchurch by now. We need to get Jack to a physicker,’ and he ran off, down the side of the church, back to Botolph Street.

  By now, Tom was cramping badly and desper
ate to straighten his legs. The seconds ticked by. Then he heard a splashing on the stone above him, followed by a grunt, and a quiet voice.

  ‘And I’ll piss on your grave one day, Billy Boy. I will that.’ followed by retreating footsteps.

  Chapter 22

  On the Thames

  The winter sun glistened on the surface of the Thames. The air was crisp but had lost the biting cold of the last few days.

  Elizabeth and Tom sat together at the stern of Jonah Dibdin’s wherry in their warmest clothes, a rug wrapped tightly around their legs. They were making good speed to the south side of the river, propelled by Jonah’s powerful strokes. Tom squeezed her arm and glanced sideways to judge her expression. He treasured his time alone with her and had suggested this outing to make amends for the terse conclusion to their recent stargazing. There would be no disagreements today and he was relieved to see a smile on her face as she surveyed the river.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ her eyes alive with anticipation. ‘I love a mystery! I know, we are visiting the Globe, yes?’

  ‘I hope not Miss,’ Jonah Dibdin cut in. ‘unless you fancy shooting the bridge.’

  Tom laughed. Jonah could be mean spirited and foul mouthed but he had got to know Elizabeth who liked his sardonic humour. In return, the waterman was always respectful in her presence.

  Dibdin plied his trade on the east side of London Bridge. His fares would seek passage to the south side or further east, downriver - often merchants travelling between their warehouses and the shipyards of Deptford and Rotherhithe. It was a long haul, particularly against the tide, and the preserve of the strongest and most experienced oarsman, like Jonah.

  If they needed to go upriver, travellers would catch a wherry west of the bridge, to avoid the force of the tide passing through its narrow arches. At certain times of the day, this could produce a massive surge of water, turning the river into a churning waterfall, with up to a six foot drop. This was known as shooting the bridge and, for all his experience, Jonah Dibdin would not risk it, unless he absolutely had to.

  ‘No, we’re heading for the south bank but on this side of London Bridge. Jonah knows where, so I suppose I should let you in on the secret.’

  Elizabeth watched him like an eager puppy. ‘Have you ever heard of the Pickleherring Pottery?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s based at a place called Pott’s Field which is near St.Olave’s Church in Southwark. The pottery was established by a friend of my mother’s, Christian Wilheim, who she met through the Dutch congregation in London. You’ve often admired the blue and white pottery on display at Bolton Hall…’

  ‘Yes, Delftware. Do they make it at this Pickleherring Pottery?’

  ‘They do indeed. Christian became so famous he became the Royal Gallipot Maker. After his death, his son-in-law Thomas Townend took over production. We will be meeting him today.’

  ‘It is all arranged?’

  ‘Yes. We will see their fine Delftware and I’ve asked Thomas to give you a personal tour, to show you how it’s made.’

  Elizabeth gave Tom a loving look. ‘Well, this is prime! You know me too well, Thomas Tallant,’ and she sat back in the wherry, her face wreathed in a beaming smile, closing her eyes to savour the fresh air and the regular movement of the wherry as Jonah rowed across the river.

  He switched his attention to Dibdin, facing him on his rower’s bench, his powerful shoulders keeping the oars pulling in and out of the water with complete precision. He enjoyed the silence, only punctuated by the creak of the oars and Jonah’s steady breathing.

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on your place.’ Jonah suddenly announced. Tom was surprised. Jonah was never short of a comment, giving full reign to his mordant wit, and would engage in conversations started by Tom. But he could not recall the last time he had broken a silence to make such a statement.

  ‘What do you mean, Jonah?’

  ‘I mean what I said. I saw someone by your warehouse a couple of times recently. Same person. Sniffing about. Trying to make it look casual, but I knew.’

  ‘Knew what, Jonah?

  ‘Knew they were up to no good. So I’m keeping an eye on your place.’

  ‘Thank you, Jonah. But why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  ‘And what would I tell you? I saw an ugly cove standing by your place? He didn’t feel right. Not enough to take to the constable, is it?’

  ‘So why are you telling me now?’

  For the second time on the journey Jonah Dibdin did something Tom had never seen before. He stopped rowing, in midstream, for no apparent reason. He leaned on his oars as the wherry started to drift down river. His head dropped for a moment.

  Elizabeth glanced at Tom in puzzlement. He leaned forward. ‘Jonah, are you well?’

  The oarsman lifted his grizzled face and there was moisture in his eyes. ‘I may be, but my city ain’t. There is a madness here, the like of which I have never seen in all my years on this river. The pride that people wear like a badge, the certainty they are right and the other man is wrong, on both sides, it is a black sin that eats at us all. And it can only lead to great sorrow. ‘

  Tom was amazed. He had never heard Jonah speak like this, with the eloquence of despair, and it completely silenced him.

  ‘When I see what’s happening every day on the streets. Boys attacking men of the cloth. Bullies hacking women and children with their swords. I don’t know what’s coming next. And that’s why I’m warning you. And why I’m keeping an eye on your place.’

  Elizabeth nodded her understanding and Jonah suddenly seemed embarrassed by his outburst. Her smile of encouragement seemed to increase his discomfort and he turned his head away, starting to row again for the shore.

  Ten minutes later, they were walking through Southwark towards the pottery. They said little, her excitement doused by Jonah’s outburst, which had caught them both by surprise. As the silence continued, he became exasperated. This visit was intended to make amends for the row he caused over Nicholas Culpepper. Now Jonah had destroyed the mood and Elizabeth seemed to be completely preoccupied.

  She suddenly stopped. ‘That’s it!’ she said quietly to herself.

  ‘That’s what?’ he replied irritably. This excursion was turning into another disaster.

  She gazed at him with a vacant expression. ‘Did I speak? Oh, sorry Tom. I have been trying to recall something, and being on the river with Jonah has finally dislodged it from deep in my mind. I knew I hadn’t imagined it.’

  ‘Imagined what? I hoped you might be thinking about the secrets of Delftware.’ He could hear the peevish tone in his voice, which annoyed him still more.

  ‘Oh, I am. Of course I am .’

  ‘So what were you trying to remember?’

  ‘Now I’ve recalled what it is, I’ve realised it’s nothing, even though it’s bothered me for weeks. It happens often but, on this occasion, the irritant has not produced a pearl of wisdom. Come, let us proceed apace to the world of Delftware’, and linking with Tom she strode towards St. Olave’s Church which had appeared in the distance, her brow puckered with doubt.

  Chapter 23

  The House of Commons

  Tom surveyed the crowded Commons chamber. Where was Barty? The air was thick with animated chatter as the room rapidly filled. At this rate, some members would have to stand. He was saving the seat next to him but could not keep it much longer. Several members had already requested the space and one, having then searched both sides of the floor without success, was now returning with an irate expression.

  Then he saw the familiar head, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, working towards him. As he reached the bench Barty pushed in front of the other man and climbed into his place, ignoring his protests.

  ‘I was beginning to think you were not coming,’ Tom said.

  ‘Oh, no danger of that!’ his friend replied, out of breath. ‘The crowds outside are tremendous. A lot of pushing and shoving. Pym has put his troops out on the streets again. I did wonder i
f I would get trampled underfoot.’

  ‘He’s building up pressure on the King,’

  Barty nodded. ‘By all accounts, protestors approached Westminster yesterday with another petition against the bishops, and were set upon by soldiers with swords. This time the troops were beaten back with cudgels, sticks, and stones, and the petitioners were reinforced by a group of sailors. In the end, Pym finally lost patience with the bishops and their blocking antics, so off to the Tower with them!

  ‘Robert told me about your little night time adventure.’ Tom smiled at the description. ‘He’d never seen scenes like it, in all his years with the Merchant Adventurers. Meanwhile the lord mayor and the sheriffs are riding through London trying to cool tempers, just as the King orders the City’s militia to defend his ‘Royal Person’. I tell you it’s chaos. And where is the leadership from His Majesty?’

  Sailors on the march, bishops in the Tower, the militia mobilised – Tom had a sinking feeling that soon matters would spin out of everyone’s control, and then what? He sat back, waiting for the Speaker to call the session to order.

  Meanwhile, a mile away, Elizabeth Seymour was standing in Lucy Carlisle’s parlour, feeling puzzled. She had been summoned to the Strand only hours ago. ‘Most urgent’ was the message, ‘a matter of national importance’. Although Lucy liked excitement and intrigue, Elizabeth knew at heart she was a serious minded woman. Her concerns would not be based on idle chatter. The familiar rustle of skirts made her turn in time to see Lucy approaching at speed.

  ‘Thank goodness you received my message! I’m not quite sure what I would have done if you had not.’

  She nodded. Her mind was racing. ‘What do you want of me?’