Now Gabriel understood how good would triumph over Satan, how Samson’s enslavement by chain and cage and even his torment by dog and whip were a shadow of things to come, Christ’s victory over the Deceiver, Gabriel Stubbs’s victory over the greatest of his sect’s enemies.
In the stultifying closeness of the bear’s tent, Gabriel knelt down and prayed, his heart full of thanksgiving, his brain reeling with the glory of his vision.
He took his exultant mood as a sign that he was where he was supposed to be. Even here in this sink of iniquity, this Babylon of Smithfield, where the aroma of roasting pig’s flesh rose like the savory offering on a heathen altar. Where all the world was bought and sold, Mammon reigned in his glory, and Satan sent his servants whither he willed. God had delivered the evil puppeteer into Gabriel’s hands, providing thereby to him a fast means of transport to London (the horse had carried
him as far as Cripplegate before collapsing from sheer exhaustion). Then God had brought him into Smithfield itself, where in the same concatenation of preordained events Gabriel had met Simon Plover and then the pig-woman’s girl, Rose Dibble, a plain, simple soul with whom Gabriel had shared, at least in part, the burden of his divine appointment.
He had told her what he thought prudent. For her good as well as his. And so it would be until he had put her faith to an appropriate test.
Simon Plover had been blind, stumbling drunk, smelling of bear and beer, groping his way along walls and fences—a shrunken soul already damned for its impieties in a young but wasted body.
The meeting between Gabriel and the bearward’s helper had been quite accidental, or so it had seemed at the time. Gabriel had picked the poor wretch literally out of the gutter, listened to him babble about his employers and the stinking monster he had the charge of. He bragged about running off, quitting London, but was obviously, drunk or sober, too craven to do it. Unless he was given one leg up for the enterprise.
Gabriel provided the aid, finished Plover quickly. It was more an execution than otherwise, and the truth was that Gabriel felt no guilt at all and, indeed, had very little memory of the deed.
It had all been done quickly. Death, the disposing of the body—all over very quickly, like the fillip of finger and thumb. Because already Gabriel was looking beyond the death of Plover to something of more far-reaching significance.
• 50 •
• 5 •
Arrived in London, the Chelmsford constable and his wife found lodgings at the Hand and Shears, a spacious, comfortable inn convenient to the fair and much patronized by clothiers and drapers, as the inn’s name suggested. Here they slept very restlessly despite their weariness from travel, for there was a continual racket on the stairs, a child wailed all night in the next chamber, and before the first light of day the hostlers in the inn yard were up and about, they and their horses, coming and going and making a great noise about it.
The Stocks rose early, therefore, since there was no quiet to be had, breakfasted, then set out for the Priory Close, where Matthew’s wares had been taken upon their arrival and where they had since been put on display along with the goods of other of England’s clothiers.
Although the fair would not officially begin for another day, Smithfield was already swarming with peddlers, small dealers, victuallers, showmen, tradesmen of every sort, and a good number of the general public who had been drawn there for the mere sight of it all. Along with them had come less desirable folk—rogues, vagabonds, whores, cutpurses, common thieves, roisterers, and the like—men and women and some children as well, without visible means of support but with a quick eye for opportunity and for the gullibility of the innocent and honest. These stood around in conspicuous idleness, while the reputa-ble tradespeople put the finishing touches on booth and stall, unpacked their wares, or gossiped with neighbors and renewed old acquaintances, or complained about the high rents for stab lage this particular year.
Chelmsford had of course its own fair, as did every larger
town in England, but Joan had never seen anything like this. The booths, Joan observed as she passed, were very colorful but flimsily built structures, made of poles and painted canvas, old boards, barrels, and tree limbs. Some were covered with branches or thatching to protect from sun or rain; others were roofless and amounted to no more than simple partitions with bare planks for counters and crudely lettered signs announcing to the illiterate what could be had there.
All was designed to be put up and taken down with dispatch, to fit where there was little room, and to accrue the least expense to the booth’s owner, who was out to make money at Bar-tholomew Fair, not to waste it in costly construction. The more elaborate of the booths had insides and out. The front part of the booth displayed the goods sold there; the. back parts, shielded from the front by a flap of canvas or cloth, were for storage or temporary living quarters for the tradesman, who found it wise not to leave his valuable stock unwatched during the night.
Sellers of drink and food who were in a prosperous way pn> vided tables and benches for their patrons. Victuallers of more modest means were content to hawk from pushcart or barrel or basket. All about, showmen—and there were a great company of them—could be seen honing their skills. Jugglers, magicians, singers, acrobats—from all over England. And with the show' men were the monsters of Smithfield: the calf with five legs, the woman with beard, and a bull with a great pizzle, which had been shown in many a fair and was regarded a favorite attraction.
Joan also saw a puppeteer, entertaining a handful of children, and thought of the poor fellow that was murdered.
But the greatest impression forced on her was no sight but the stink! It was perfectly horrid, and she had not walked more than a few dozen yards into the maze of booths before she commented on it. It was indeed strong enough to cause the nostrils to burn.
“It’s the cattle,” Matthew explained, looking around him and obviously taking delight in what he saw. “The horse and hay market of Smithfield is famous. The stench is the price that is paid for it. Never fear, your nose will grow used to it.”
But Joan doubted her nose would. Her good wife’s nose, an instrument of great sensitivity and discernment, was superior to that of her husband, but she said no more about the smell. As for sights, there were almost more here than she could take in. She marveled that her husband knew where he was going. She had lost her own sense of direction completely. Did the inn lay that way or this? All was twistings and turnings. The booths had been set out in lanes, but none was straighter than the permanent alleys and streets of the neighborhood.
She also found the stares of the tradespeople disturbing. They stared boldly at her as though she were some wonder herself fit to be shown there. Was there something odd about her appear-ance, her dress, she wondered? Or was it simply that they were unaccustomed to the sight of a well-dressed woman of the rising middle class, astride with her husband, also of a prosperous sort, amid the booths before the fair began?
Joan decided she did not like Smithfield nor its great fair, despite its fame and dissolute glamor. She was no “Bartholomew Bird,” as she had heard the denizens of Smithfield called; and she could not forgive the noxious odor of the place, no matter what her husband might say in mitigation.
In the Priory Close were permanent booths rented to the clothiers during fair time and kept in good repair. This spacious yard, surrounded on three sides by walls of good height and on the fourth by the Priory of St. Bartholomew itself, had the advantage of greater cleanliness and a measure of security during the night, for the gate was locked and the Close patrolled by the Smithfield watch. There, Matthew found his goods, already set out by his assistant, Peter Bench. Peter was reading a book and hardly noticed his master’s approach.
Matthew greeted his assistant heartily.
“A very good day, Mr. Stock and Mrs. Stock!” said Peter.
“All in good order, I see,” said Matthew, casting an appreciative eye over his samples.
“Oh, it’
s been very quiet here, sir,” said Peter.
“It will be a different story, tomorrow,” said Matthew.
“Let’s pray it will,” said Joan, “or we have all come to Smithfield for nothing.”
“Hardly for nothing,” Matthew said. “There’s the fair. Also Ned Babcock.”
Bartholomew Fair. Ned Babcock. Joan did not care at all for the first; would she like the second? She hardly remembered the man—or boy, as he was those many years before. The image of a thin boy with a round, ruddy face came to mind, then slipped away, as old memories did. Had that vanishing figure of her imagination been Ned Babcock or some other among her early acquaintances? Well, he was Matthew’s boyhood friend, and she supposed that should be enough for her.
“We are to meet Ned at the bear pit,” Matthew announced after a few more words with Peter. “Peter, you may return to your book. A collection of poems, is it?”
Peter said that it was. He had bought it at a stall near Paul’s churchyard and was pleased with the contents. “Well, read on,” said Matthew, in very good humor.
On their way to the bear pit, Matthew spoke warmly of Ned Babcock. “A most generous and able fellow, I tell you, Joan, despite an almost constant stream of ill luck. We were schooL fellows, you know. He was an apprentice to my father’s cousin, Jacob Symmington, a tailor. He forsook the craft after a time, went to London, became a bookseller, lost all in a fire, then by turns was bricklayer, carpenter, and at length, his father’s heir. Was welLtO'do but lost all again in foolish investments.”
“And now he baits the bears in Southwark,” Joan remarked, ironically.
“A recent adventure, with capital he secured from several old creditors upon promise to spend wisely and repay twice the sum he originally borrowed, with his father’s land in Essex as se-curity. His partner’s name is Francis Crisp. I don’t know the man, but Ned speaks well of him.”
“I think I shall meet both soon,” Joan said, seeing the bear pit ahead.
A large sign dangling from a newly erected post read:
SMITHFIELD BEAR GARDENS, BABCOCK AND CRISP, PRO-PRIETORS. Depicted on the sign was a bear rampant, paws in the air. This, she presumed, was the legendary Samson, about whom her husband had spoken on another occasion. Already her fastidious housewife’s nose could sniff the bear’s acrid odor. The most unpleasant odor yet. Bear Gardens, indeed!
A handsome young man with a limp was standing before the bear pit entrance, watching the people pass. He told the Stocks where his employers, Babcock and Crisp, could be found. Fran' cis Crisp was standing in the pit proper, tossing apples to a bear. The bear was catching the apples in his mouth and eating them greedily. Crisp paused when he became aware of the Stocks and said, “No baiting today, if you’ve come for that. Return tomorrow. The first baiting is at three o’clock.”
Her husband explained that they had not come for the bait' ing but to see Ned Babcock, his old friend.
“So you’re Matthew Stock of Chelmsford!” cried Crisp, wrin-kling his face into a smile. “As I hope to be saved, Ned will be right pleased to know you’ve come. Now where is the man? By the Mass, he’s around here someplace.”
Crisp extended a sinewy, brown hand and Matthew shook it. “You’re right welcome to Smithfield and its bear garden,” Crisp said.
Joan stared at the bear with fascination. She had seen many bears—bears dancing, begging, decked out in funny hats or coats. The English loved them. But she had never seen a bear such as this. The shaggy creature was very large, with a mas' sive, sloping forehead and huge snout; its paws were powerful' looking and threatening. She watched as it greedily gobbled up the last of the apples and then looked inquiringly at Crisp as though to ask if there weren’t more. She noticed the bear had many an old wound on its mangy coat. He was well named, the bear. Samson, terror of dogs—and perhaps men too?
A man now came out of the tent that could be seen at the other end of the pit, shaded his eyes, and helloed.
“Ned!” cried Matthew, as the large, ruddyTaced man came toward them, his arms open in a gesture of welcome.
Had their journey been a pleasant one, Babcock wanted to know, talking very fast and with many gestures. And what did they think of Smithfield? Was it not very fine, despite the August heat, the dust, and the stink? Joan allowed Matthew to answer these questions, and felt somewhat excluded from the reunion.
“He’s not Harry Hunks or Sackerson,” said Babcock, refer' ring to two of the most famous of London’s fighting bears, “yet he’s a stout fellow in combat, I assure you.”
This stout fellow, having evidently concluded that there were no more apples to be had, was now resting his head on his forepaws and staring listlessly at his masters and their guests. In this pos' ture, the bear resembled a large shaggy dog in the grip of unspeak' able boredom, but Babcock was still going on about the bear’s valor. “There’s many have paid three pence or more to see Samson at work and not complained afterward of the cost. He’s long in the tooth now, but he’s as strong and mighty as ever he was.” Francis Crisp, Joan noticed, said little. She thought him a queer little man, shabbily dressed in contrast to his partner, and smelling of the bear. Although friendly and outgoing before, he seemed in his partner’s presence to become somewhat moody and quiet, as though all the verbal energy available was used up by Babcock, whenever the larger and younger man was around. Babcock asked them if they wouldn’t like a tour of the pit. It was something to see, he assured them. His enthusiasm made clear this was not an invitation to be refused.
“This hour tomorrow, the fair begun, these benches will be full,” said Babcock as they walked the length of the pit and came to the tent. “In three days’ time I’ll be free of debt and a new man.” Babcock smiled optimistically.
“Feeding Samson must be a great expense,” Joan remarked as Babcock led them inside the dark, fouhsmelling den. She saw the cage, taller than a man, with iron bars like a prison. Its floor was strewn with straw, atop of which could be seen the remains of the bear’s last meal—a cluster of bloody bones and gristle.
Noticing that Joan had taken an interest in the cage, Bab-cock described Samson’s diet. The bear ate great quantities of meat had from the city butchers at little cost since most of it was scrap, he said. Samson also was fond of good English beer, although the animal was provided with this treat sparingly so as not to form an expensive habit. Babcock told a story about one bear who so came to prefer the beverage that he refused there' after to drink water.
Matthew laughed at the story. “I wonder that any hound lives who would dare fight with such a creature,” he said.
Joan agreed.
“Oh, you’d be amazed,” Babcock said. “A strong'hearted mastiff will sink his teeth in and hold ’til his very body is stripped raw of fur. I’ve seen it myself. But the most courageous dog I ever saw was a little spaniel named Twit. No bigger than a house cat. He bit half through Samson’s foot before he bled to death himself. What a pity. I had to cut the spaniel’s teeth off Samson. It took a month for the wound to heal properly. On your way outdoors you can see for yourself. A very ugly scar.”
Joan said she would put off examining the scar for another visit.
Babcock continued on about Samson’s prowess and his hopes that his new business venture would both clear his debts and make him and Crisp wealthy. “If Samson doesn’t bring in the coppers this fair time, then I don’t know my head from my hand. Why, every farmer and goatherd will want to match their favorite dog or bitch against him. But they will be sorely disap' pointed, I promise you, for Samson will send them that live whimpering home soon enough.”
It was very hot inside the tent, and having viewed Samson’s cage there was little else for Joan to see, except for a pile of fresh straw and, in a corner, a kind of rude pallet, with a patched blanket covering it. Babcock led them out, still jabber' ing about the bear, with Crisp nodding his head in wordless approval of all his partner said. Joan got the idea that Samson was only the most recent of Babcock
’s enthusiasms. He talked
like a successful man, and had Matthew not acquainted her with the sad tale of his failures, Joan would probably have taken his boasting at face value. But what did it all amount to really, this investment in a bear that did battle with dogs? It did not seem to her an entirely honest way of life.
Matthew thanked the bearwards for the tour and promised to return the next day for the first of the baitings. Joan had earlier agreed to keep Matthew company. Matthew planned to attend for friendship’s sake; Joan, for Matthew’s sake. Neither cared for bearbaitings, although neither had seen one. Then Babcock invited them to take supper with him that night. “You shall meet our investors,” he declared, with particular emphasis on the word investors. “And my daughter, Juliet.”
“She that was recently widowed?” Matthew inquired.
For once the round-faced, ebullient man frowned; but it was not a face for frowning, and the stem regard soon faded. “The very one. A most unfortunate girl. Somewhat melancholy, and for very good reason. The story of her husband’s untimely death is a sad one, but I’ll save it for another day.”
They said their farewells to the two partners and, passing out through the entrance booth, Matthew announced he would spend the afternoon in the Close, for he planned to show his wares to certain London tailors with whom he hoped eventually to do some business. He asked Joan if she would come too, but she declined. She had had enough for the morning of men and their doings and was badly in need of fresher air. If such could be had in Smithfield.
She resolved to strike out for herself, but agreed to meet Matthew at the Hand and Shears at five o’clock.
Matthew walked off toward the Priory. Joan paused, decided which way to go. Then she saw the young man she had observed upon entering, the bearward’s helper. He was coming up the lane, pushing the wheelbarrow that was now empty of its odoriferous contents. He was almost to her when he stopped to talk to a slim, dark-haired girl, who had come out of one of the booths to meet him.
The Bartholomew Fair Murders Page 6