by S. D. Sykes
‘I give her food and a bed,’ said Mistress Nash. ‘For doing the washing.’
‘But perhaps not enough food?’
Mistress Nash opened her mouth to say something, but I sent her away before she had the opportunity to protest. I insisted Cissie stay in the room, however. The girl retreated towards the wall and regarded me with unfriendly eyes.
‘You caused this wound on your son’s head, didn’t you?’ I said, pointing to her small bundle of a baby. ‘Then you pretended he had been attacked by a bird.’
The girl mustered an indignant snort. ‘No, sire. The bird did it.’
I strode over to her and caught her by the arm. ‘Don’t lie to me. You took the chickens, didn’t you?’
‘No! That’s not true!’ She wriggled free, before bolting through the door and disappearing down the steep steps. ‘It was the bird,’ she yelled. ‘The bird, you clotpole!’
As the girl’s voice receded into the distance with her curses still ringing about the room, Mother reappeared from the shadows. ‘That girl should be flogged for such insolence.’
I shook my head. ‘She wouldn’t survive such a punishment.’
Mother put her hands on her hips. ‘Well. Sometimes I don’t know why you bother with such questioning, Oswald. I really don’t.’
I fell upon the bed. ‘Because I am a celebrated investigator, Mother. Remember?’
* * *
That night my nightmares began again. This time it was not the burning boy, nor even the three scratched and shrivelled children. Instead I was running through a valley where there were no trees. The ground was bare earth. The sky was dark, though it was not night. I was escaping from something, but was unable to move any faster. Now the soil became a swamp, and though I tried with all my might, it was impossible to pull my feet from the mire. Then I heard a piercing screech from the air. The shadow of a great bird spread across the ground in front of me. I could hear the flap of its broad wings. I was trapped. As the bird swooped down to attack me, I woke in a sweat.
The next morning, before we left the inn, I took Mistress Nash to one side. I gave her some coins, with the express instructions that this money was to be used to feed Cissie and her child. I warned her that our party would visit the inn again on my return to Somershill. If I found the child had died in the meantime, then I would alert the nearest constable. This was a lie, as I had no intention of using these roads for our return journey, but the woman took me seriously. At least I hoped she did.
Chapter Fifteen
Once we had passed the hills of the North Downs, we travelled along the dry valleys towards London, where the rivers only peeped their heads above the chalk during the wettest of years. And then across the fields of Croydon and past the archbishop’s summer palace towards the great north wood, where the road would take us up to Lambeth and then finally Southwark.
Our small band no longer cut an exceptional sight. We had passed only people on foot during the early part of our journey, but now we met many other carriages. To begin with, Mother liked to wave them down to discover the destination and identity of the family within. But, once or twice, the somewhat forlorn look of the cloth across the frame of our carriage, or the worn-out condition of our servants’ livery, was enough to cause the other party to ride on quickly, after the most cursory of acknowledgements.
In the end, Mother retreated under the hood whenever we saw another carriage, and then knotted the flaps of the canopy together so that nobody might look in. She claimed to be sleeping, but we heard a long series of complaints every time we negotiated a small bump in the road, or even had to change direction. Yet again I cursed my decision in allowing Mother to join our journey, and even more for letting her choose our route. We would be returning to Somershill through Bromley and Sevenoaks, and there would be no negotiation.
As we finally reached Southwark, we found the place thronging with a multitude of people who were heading to or from the city. On the opposite bank of the River Thames, the great spire of Saint Paul’s dwarfed all other buildings on the skyline. Before us, the many arches of London Bridge dug their fingers into the riverbed, forcing the water to rush through their grip in furious torrents. I noted immediately a capsized boat, whose captain had not successfully navigated his path under the bridge. We stopped to watch for a while, as other wherries came to the boat’s aid, and then, because nightfall was approaching, I hurried our party along, for we needed to find somewhere to sleep.
Finding an inn should have been an easy task, given that there was a bushel on a pole hung above every second door on this street. But Southwark was brimming to its lip with people. Not only the pilgrims, as they gathered into groups before making their way towards Canterbury, but also a far more unholy crowd – men here to take their pleasures at the Southwark stews, where they might eat, drink and soak themselves in the company of women. As we passed one of these bawdy establishments, I will admit to feeling a shameful twinge of excitement. Especially when a pretty girl called out to me. Her accent was Flemish. Her breasts were large.
We moved on quickly and eventually found a place to stay further away from the priory, towards the flat and marshy lands of Lambeth moor. It was a poor and ramshackle inn, owned by a miserable widow who brewed watery ale that equalled her enthusiasm for life. The widow agreed to stable our horses, but would not tend to them – no matter what I offered to pay her. This inconvenience meant I would have to leave Geoffrey behind to feed and care for the animals, while we crossed the river the next morning to retrieve the sisters.
Geoffrey could not hide his disappointment at this arrangement, so I offered to walk with him to Southwark before sunset, while the widow fed the rest of the party with a frumenty of wheat and sultanas. Given the resemblance of this meal to something that might have been thrown up on the street outside one of the stews, I was pleased to excuse myself from the table and find a pie seller near the priory instead. Geoffrey sloped along behind me, kicking at the stones in the road. If he hoped this display of umbrage would somehow change my mind about him staying to look after the horses, then he was completely mistaken. I had more important matters on my mind than hurting the feelings of a boy.
They say the light in London is different, and I would agree. Standing that evening on the south bank and looking over the leaden Thames towards the city, it was the sky that made the greatest spectacle. So vast and wide. Streaked in pink and gold against a clouded backcloth. Seagulls wheeled and soared, making their sad, screeching calls, while the silent cormorants skimmed the surface of the river, their feathers as black and gleaming as Whitby jet. While I marvelled at the clouds and the birds, however, it was the sight of the city itself that most thrilled my young companion.
Geoffrey pointed into the distance, where the white walls of the Tower of London stood out against the muddy banks of the Thames. ‘Is it true that traitors are pulled apart on the rack in there?’
I shrugged, uncomfortable at the boy’s interest in such a story. ‘I’m not sure,’ I lied. ‘But listen. They say the walls are built with French stone. Shipped over from Caen.’
Geoffrey’s mouth closed and his face fell. He was not at all interested in the construction of the tower. ‘But is it true the king keeps lions and leopards inside the tower?’ he now asked. ‘And that they sometimes eat their keepers?’
I was beginning to feel irritated by his prurience, but then remembered my own gruesome obsessions as a young boy. At that age I probably would have been just as interested in the tower and its macabre reputation.
The boy tugged lightly at my tunic. ‘While you’re away, may I cross London Bridge, sire?’
I quickly shook my head. ‘No, Geoffrey. You must stay on this side of the river.’
Now he bobbed from foot to foot, as if he needed to visit a latrine. ‘But sire. The bridge is full of shops and houses. I’m sure I would be safe.’
‘It is also full of thieves and outlaws. You must stay at the inn.’
‘May I no
t go as far as Saint Thomas’s chapel?’ he said plaintively. ‘It’s only halfway across the bridge.Then I could hear mass.’
‘This isn’t a pilgrimage, Geoffrey. You are here to work.’ A dark cloud suddenly crept across his face. He might even have been on the point of stamping his foot, before thinking better of it. ‘But I told Piers I would walk across London Bridge, and he didn’t believe me. Now he will call me a liar.’
‘That’s no concern of mine.’
‘But—’
I took the boy by the arm and marched him back to the inn, warning Geoffrey to stay with the horses or be sent back to live with Mary Cadebridge.
The next morning, after the poorest of night’s sleep, Mother, her lady’s maid Ada, and Edwin joined me in crossing the Thames at hrst light. I hoped Edwin might be of some use in scaring away the many beggars who continually approached us in search of alms. The day before, as we had reached Southwark, I had seen a poor woman wheel her crippled son along in a barrow – his song was so sweet and mournful that it moved me to give him a farthing. I do not believe that such afflictions are a punishment from God. Instead I see the fickleness of life being wheeled before me – for what decides our place in this world, other than chance?
My farthing was supposed to be a quiet act of charity, but word of my generosity soon went around, and then I was besieged by beggars – blind men, starving orphans, women with withered arms and no hair. And though I asked them politely to leave me alone, it seemed they would not listen to my respectful entreaties. It was only Edwin, armed with a horsewhip and a barrage of foul language, who was able to get their full attention. I soon learnt that charity in London must be either discreet, or not entered into at all.
Our destination that morning was an area of the city near to the Guildhall. A place called Milk Street, where Mother claimed the Coopers lived. Personally I would have taken one of the many wherry boats that bobbed on the river, waiting to take their passengers from the south bank to the city. But once again Mother was instrumental in twisting my plans to suit her own ends, insisting she would not put foot on one of the boats, as it would induce sickness. Instead we were to find, at no little expense, a covered litter, so Mother might be carried across London Bridge without having to place her shoes onto the filth of the streets. She insisted that her little dog Hector join her inside the litter, as his delicate stomach might be affected by nibbling at the piles of discarded food that lay everywhere about the city. The addition of a dog added a halfpenny to the fare.
Following the fuss over the litter, we set off much later than I had intended, now joining the tide of people walking towards the city. It was said that London had lost nearly forty thousand souls in the Great Plague, but if that were true, then this gap had been quickly filled, for this was not a halved city. Now it heaved with a new population of migrants from the farms of England, or escapees from the continent. There could be no doubt, the wounds of the Plague had healed fast in London.
As we made our way under the southern gatehouse, I looked upwards to see the famous array of heads, impaled upon spikes. These heads had been dipped in tar to preserve the skin and hair against the elements, and now they appeared as evil as a clutch of demons in a doom painting. I wondered what crimes these men had committed – for I guessed they were mostly men. Ada crossed herself and looked to the floor, but I noticed Mother peeping out through the curtains of the litter.
‘It will give you nightmares, Mother,’ I warned. She quickly closed the cloth and didn’t answer.
We made slow progress across the bridge, and I found time to wonder at the profusion of life that clung to this long and thin strip of stone. The desire to trade on London Bridge was strong and had resulted in a street of buildings that hung so far over the river, it seemed they might collapse into the water at any moment. On either side of the narrow street – a track not much more than twenty feet wide – tall buildings towered above us, blocking out any chance of sunlight.
Worse than the lack of light and the profusion of people, however, was the smell of London. I have lived in the country for all of my life, and the farmyards of Kent may smell bad enough, but this was a stench of wholly new proportions – an evil mixture of dung, sewage, rotting fish and meat. I wanted to purchase a bag of lavender to crush in my hand, but was afraid to open my money pouch, in case a cut-purse should see me.
We tried instead to push forward through the stinking throng, but our progress was not assisted by Mother’s litter chair, which frequently banged into the backs of fellow travellers, causing them to turn and curse at us. And it was not only people in our way, it was also chickens, pigs and goats. Dogs ran about our feet, weaving in and out of the crowd, sniffing at the ground. They were scrawny, loping creatures of no particular breed, and though a man was employed to walk up and down the bridge and chase them away with a whip, they only fled as far as a dark corner, before soon reappearing when his back was turned.
Hawkers and pedlars jumped in front of us at every opportunity – selling shrivelled apples, flapping geese, or small pieces of bone that were absolutely and incontrovertibly certified as the finger of a true saint. A man with the colouring of a boiling beetroot stood in my way and thrust a bowl of cloves under my nose. In his other hand he rattled a glass jar that contained a handful of small brown nuts. He called out repeatedly, ‘Mace for sale. Direct from the Orient.’ When he shoved the bottle into my face, I replied politely that I wasn’t interested. But once again, my error was to engage with the man at all, when I should simply have ignored him – for, the result of my politeness was to give the impression that a sale was imminent. It then fell to Edwin to chase him away, whereupon the man called me a stinking idler who had wasted his time. He even shouted to other hawkers to avoid our party, though none paid any attention to his warning, and soon he returned to his calls. ‘Mace for sale. Direct from the Orient.’
There was little in life that a person could want, that could not be bought upon London Bridge. In fact you might never have the need to leave this short and populous edifice – for there were shops, inns, latrines, and even a church built above its stone arches. I was pleased to leave, however. The bridge was nothing more than the congested throat of London and it had taken us nearly an hour to cross.
Mother once again lifted the curtain of her litter. ‘Did the cut- purses get you, Oswald?’
‘No, Mother.’
She let the curtain fall with a disdainful flick, almost disappointed.
On several occasions I had felt the small and grasping hands of children about my body, as they had searched for my purse within my tunic. I shooed them away, but then felt another kind of scrutiny. It was not the starving urchins, or even the older cut- purses who watched me from the shadows. I turned quickly on many occasions to catch out my examiner, only to be confronted by a sea of faces. Some met my gaze, but most ignored me and carried on with their journey, as if I were nothing more interesting than a feral pigeon.This feeling was disquieting, however – no matter how often I tried to convince myself that it was merely my imagination.
Once leaving the bridge, we moved northward.The street was wide enough at first, but soon it narrowed into yet another stinking alley, where the projecting jetties of the houses on either side of us trapped the stale air in the street. The air was thick with the fumes of woodsmoke, tanneries, and the rotting food and ordure that should have been pushed down the gullies towards the Thames by a street raker.
When we finally reached our destination near the Guildhall, we were to discover that the Coopers no longer lived in Milk Street, as Mother had firmly asserted. Instead Eloise had moved outside of the city to a grander residence on the Strand, after the death of her husband and daughter. A servant informed us, with something of a shrug, that Eloise had prospered from the Plague by purchasing the largest empty house she could lay her hands upon. We were all tired and irritable, and it was a great disappointment to discover that we were not already at our destination. To compound our trouble
s, the litter carriers refused to transport Mother any further than Ludgate, as they argued that nobody outside of the city walls would pay their return fare.
We stopped at the gatehouse of Ludgate so that Mother and Hector might be deposited onto the street they had so assiduously been avoiding. The air was chill by now, and a fog had risen from the River Fleet – its smell betraying the river’s evil cargo of entrails and carcasses from the slaughterhouses of Smithfield further upstream. Now we had left the city walls, Mother clasped Hector under one arm and held onto me with the other, as we made our way along Fleet Street. We tried to stay together as a group, but soon we lost Ada and Edwin in the crowds and the fog, and though we called for them, they didn’t answer. And then, though the road is straight, we became disorientated and found ourselves in a narrow, twisting street that soon became a dead end among broken carts and worse. Our only company was a wild pig that snuffled through the bones and onion skins of a rubbish tip. Hector struggled from Mother’s grip and chased the pig into the warren of alleys.
Mother panicked. ‘Hector!’ she called. ‘Hector! Come back immediately.’
‘He won’t go far,’ I argued. Though the dog had the sense of a cock pheasant.
We turned to retrace our steps, but found our path to be blocked by two men.They wore long tunics and their hoods were pulled low over their faces.
Mother squeezed my hand and whispered, ‘I told you not to come up this street, Oswald. They’ll cut our necks.’
‘Shut up Mother.’ I turned to address the men, who had moved closer. ‘Good day to you.’There came no reply.
Mother squeezed my hand again. ‘Tell them to be gone, Oswald. We are known to the king. They should stand aside.’
The men sniggered at this remark. I cleared my throat. ‘Is this the way to Fleet Street?’
The man on the right thrust his hand forward. He was missing the ends of three fingers. ‘Your purse. Hand it over.’