One man translates, calling others to hear that it reads, “But Popish frenzy, which wrought such horrors, is not yet quenched.” Around him, people grumble their agreement. On the east side there is another addition, this one in Latin and English. I join the people peering at it and read, “The City of London was burnt and consumed with fire by the treachery and malice of the papists in September in the year of Our Lord 1666.”
“Those Catholic bastards,” one woman shouts. “They’re the ones that should burn!”
I hurry home.
Chapter Three
Nat
Edmund Godfrey had lived in Westminster, just off The Strand by Charing Cross, on Hartshorn Lane – a muddled street leading up from the river, where grand houses jostle next to stables and storehouses.
Henry and I identify the dead man’s house from a way off. It’s shrouded in darkness, but two light-boys stand outside swinging bright lanterns back and forth. The magistrate was also a successful wood and coal-monger, but unmarried and childless. I presume his brothers will inherit his wealth. Since Godfrey was found dead with ligature marks on his neck and his own sword sticking out of his chest, there has been talk of little else. Within hours it was rumoured that papists had murdered him as part of a complex plot against the Crown. It takes little enough to make Protestant London flutter and fear. Godfrey’s death is a public event, and we are not the only ones taking the opportunity to view the corpse. A steady trickle of men and women come and go from the house as we approach.
“And how is Mistress Thompson?” Henry asks.
“She is well.”
“Settled?”
“Very.”
For ten years, Henry Broome has been my publisher and business partner, my closest friend and ally. Unfortunately, he has doubts about my hasty marriage. Doubts that I don’t care to hear expressed.
“What do you know of this Titus Oates?” I ask, to change the subject.
No more is required. Henry embarks upon a steady stream of observations about this young parson I’ve heard about. Titus Oates has risen to prominence by revealing a plot to murder the King. Oates has been given lodgings in Whitehall, Henry says, and hailed as a hero. Oates claims he infiltrated a network of Jesuits, uncovered an assassination plot, and risked his own life to reveal it. While Henry explains, I say little, watching the smoke of his breath on the cold air spiral and disappear.
An old servant stands beside the open front door, scrutinising every visitor. The house is of modest size, and while Godfrey was not one to flaunt his riches, I have no trouble reading his success in the thick drapes at every window, the panelled walls, the silver plate, and the waxy white candles that burn so merrily. These are the details I need for the newssheets tomorrow morning. It is a fine property. I would very much like to see Anne in such a house.
William has arrived before us and we fall into step with him. He is a quiet fellow, my friend William Smith – a schoolteacher, very reserved – but he has a sharp eye for detail and a dry sense of humour. Anne likes him. She is certainly more comfortable with William than she is with Henry.
“Did you see that?” William whispers in my ear.
“What?”
“The housekeeper. Look how she glares at the old fellow at the door.”
I’ve missed the exchange. Behind the scenes, the household is likely in some state. “Many questions must have been asked of them these last few days,” I say.
We join the slow stream of people entering the room where Godfrey lies, and circle the open coffin. In life, Godfrey was a thin, whey-faced man. In death, his face is swollen and distorted. I hardly recognise him.
“Godfrey would not want all this,” say Henry. “Not one for attention. And it does not help your position.”
“What does this have to do with Nat’s work?” asks William.
“He means the Licensing Act,” I say. “It must be renewed by Parliament in the New Year or my post will disappear. I can ill afford that. Especially now.”
“Why wouldn’t it be renewed?”
“Because of this Titus Oates and his Popish plot. Parliament is in uproar. All normal business suspended,” says Henry.
“Titus Oates?” William frowns. He looks from me to Henry and back again, but we have reached the hallway and must exchange a few words with Godfrey’s brothers on our way out. I mutter the normal condolences, but Henry is more familiar.
“Dear sirs,” he says, clasping each man’s hand in his bear-paws one after another. “What news of the investigation? Has the King’s reward prompted anyone to come forward?”
Benjamin Godfrey frowns, a peevish contraction of brows, but remains silent. The older brother, Michael, speaks for them both. A ruddy, fleshier version of the dead magistrate, he shakes his head. “Nothing at all, Mr. Broome, sadly. In my day, five hundred pounds was a lot of money.” It is on my lips to say that five hundred pounds would be very welcome to me – in his day, my day, or any day – but I don’t think they are too interested in my troubles. “My brother and I,” he continues, “have concluded that poor Edmund was murdered for political reasons. I fear that those involved will not be tempted by money. They are indoctrinated in hate, these Catholics.”
***
“A poor pair,” says Henry, as we leave. “Godfrey was nothing like them. Very quiet and private, although he had some surprising friends.”
“Yes?” I say.
“Edward Coleman, for one. Valentine Greatrakes is another.”
“Surprising indeed.” Edward Coleman is a Catholic, and secretary to the King’s brother and heir, James, Duke of York. Valentine Greatrakes, on the other hand, is an Irish faith healer, of all things. The idea of Godfrey – a famously dour Protestant magistrate – consorting with either man, stretches credulity. William’s chin is on his chest and he remains silent so I don’t know what he thinks. As we stroll down the Strand past Somerset House, there are noticeably more soldiers abroad, erecting and lighting braziers, lifting the customary gloom of London at night. The streets are busy with pedlars eking out pence where they can and young men gathering courage to sample the flesh-pots of Covent Garden. Ragged children and stray dogs nip in and out between carriages and horses like darting fish.
“Titus Oates,” says William. “I know him.”
We are only a step from Sam’s Coffee House. Henry tips his head towards the door.
Until I met Anne, this was my very favourite place in London. In Sam’s, the fires burn bright. The coffee boy checks that the water is boiling and sniffs to see how long until a fresh infusion is required. It’s steamy hot. Men huddle on long benches, smoking, drinking coffee, brandy or ale; talking in low voices so that there is a constant throaty hubbub, broken by the odd crack of laughter and the clatter of dishes, or the swing of the door. It is always the same, day or night. I promise myself that I will not stay long.
As soon we are seated with drinks in our hands, Henry leans forward.
“Well? What do you know of Oates?”
“More than I want to, and more than enough,” says William. “I was his teacher once.”
“You were?” I’m surprised. William is older than me, but still.
“I was a young man then, of course. In my early twenties. And Titus is not so old now as you may imagine. He’s not yet thirty, and I am only his senior by ten years.”
“And where? Where was this?” asks Henry.
“At the Merchant Taylors’ School. Years ago. In ’64, or thereabouts.”
“What do you remember of him? How would you describe him?”
William takes a breath. “He was backward, unpleasant, and untrustworthy. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Henry and I exchange a speaking glance. He’s as surprised as I am by William’s vehemence. I have not known William long, truth be told. We met quite by chance, strolling through Covent Garden Market one day last spring. Anne and I, not yet married, were there together, taking advantage of a lazy maid who was more interested
in flirting with a young man from the barber’s shop than watching who her mistress met in the market. We were buying herbs when a scrubby boy hurtled past and almost knocked Anne over. He had pinched an apple and was making a break for it. It was the boy that ended up in the dirt, however, and he would have been in the hands of the law had not William stepped in the way, blocking the path of the outraged stallholder while the boy escaped. Anne and I observed the whole pantomime. William pretended he had no notion of what was afoot, but Anne was sure his intervention was deliberate. She insisted we congratulate him on his kindness, and William and I struck up a friendship. He’s an interesting chap who likes to talk politics, and I enjoy his company. He often visits us, and I have great respect for his opinion.
“In what way untrustworthy?” asks Henry.
“Oh, the usual. Stealing from other boys. Cheating. Blaming others for his failure to complete tasks. He was expelled in the end.”
“I see. And his school work?”
“A struggle. I met his mother once. She told me he was much later to develop than any of his siblings.” William’s expression is grave. “She said he frightened her. For years she wondered if something was wrong with him. He had trouble learning to speak, he drooled, and had constant colds and dirty habits. She said that Titus’s father couldn’t stand him and would beat him as soon as look at him, yet the boy had always craved his father’s attention. She was adamant that Titus had hated the sight of her.”
“And you described him as unpleasant. How?”
“Crude. Angry. Prone to sudden outbursts.”
“I suppose a man may change as he grows older,” says Henry.
“No!” William swallows, as if trying to keep his emotions in check. “He is not much changed from the boy I’ve described. He frequents the Fuller’s Rent Tavern. I have seen him there.”
The Fuller’s Rent Tavern has a certain reputation. I make sure not to glance at Henry.
“He is not liked there,” says William. “But he is tolerated. Because Matthew had a kindness for him.”
“Matthew?” I ask.
William’s dark eyes are fixed on the table. “Matthew Medbourne, the actor.”
“Where have I heard that name?” mutters Henry.
“Medbourne is in Newgate Prison.”
***
An hour or two later, I walk home in the rain. There is no moon to help me see where to put my feet on the narrow runs between leaning houses. William’s story about Medbourne weighs on me.
Medbourne and William had been at the Fuller’s Rent one night when Titus Oates approached them. Oates had recognised his old teacher and William felt obliged to acknowledge him.
Henry had kept his gaze on his coffee cup while William pulled his fingers. Several times he’d lifted his chin as if to speak and then changed his mind. Finally, he had said, “Some things are not easily explained.”
I consider that as I make my way down Grace Church Street, but the behaviour of Titus Oates worries me more. William described a man who had befriended another man only to use him. Medbourne had found this Oates a job in the household of the Duke of Norfolk. Without it, William said, the fellow would have been destitute. But as soon as he was settled, Oates turned on Matthew Medbourne. He dropped him, ignored him, and tried to turn the other fellows at the Fuller’s Rent Tavern against him, too. Then Oates had lost his post. William didn’t know why but suggested theft, drunkenness, or some lewd act most likely played a part.
At home, all is silent and dark. I have stayed out too late and let Anne down. But I needed to hear what William had to say. It is well that I did.
“Oates is vindictive. With power and influence he is dangerous,” William had said. “Matthew Medbourne is a Catholic. He is in Newgate, charged with involvement in a Popish Plot that Titus Oates has exposed. Just the suggestion that Matthew could be involved in such a business is preposterous. But he has been in Newgate for weeks, and Oates will speak to Parliament in the House of Commons in a few days’ time.”
I pull off my boots as quietly as possible and rest for a moment on our narrow stairs. Perhaps Anne will stir when I climb into bed. I need her warmth and might find rest for my thoughts in her arms, if she wakes. For now, Henry’s concerns occupy me. He does not like what is happening. Not the death of Justice Godfrey, not the mood on the streets, not what William just told us about Titus Oates, and certainly not the prospects for my future employment given all this upheaval.
To be brutally honest, neither do I.
Chapter Four
Anne
He swings his long legs out of the bed and rests his feet on the cool wooden floor. The bed ropes creak as I sit up next to him. I run my fingers through his cropped brown hair.
“Shall I cut it later?”
“Yes, if you think it needs it. Did you see the chains go up in the streets?”
“The length of King Street and the Strand, I was told.” I pull on a long linen shift and go to the basin to wash. A giggle catches my throat as Nat, who declares he prefers to feel the air about himself, stands up. He is stark naked, surely tingling with cold. Perhaps when I am an old married woman such sights will be commonplace, but not any time soon, I hope. I like looking at my husband. He stretches his arms out wide and upwards until his fingertips brush the grainy plaster on the ceiling.
“If you ask me, the whole of London has run mad,” he says.
Our bedroom is a cramped, close-quartered room, wood-panelled to its hips with white plaster walls above. It was the barest cell when he first brought me home, but I made it merry with some faded red tapestries. Even now, there is nothing in the room beyond a press for our clothes, a dresser for the basin and jug, and our bed. It is a far cry from my parents’ house, but I am not regretful about that. As I straighten the bedclothes and tie the thick damask hangings – our single luxury – Nat pulls on his shirt and leans out of the window. I imagine a cradle in the corner, but have said nothing of my suspicions to Nat just yet.
“It reeks down there,” he says. “But up here I catch a hint of the river.”
“Well, that’s not much to be thankful for!”
It’s true. The Thames stinks; muck from the tanneries and rot from the markets sluice into it every day. It’s become a regular scandal. Billingsgate Fish Market is very close by. I’m not sure my stomach will ever get used to it.
“No. That’s not what I mean,” he says. “I mean the river as it should be. Or maybe I mean the sea. It’s fresher up here. You see if it isn’t.” With a grin, he reaches for me, trying to pull me to the window, and I know where that will end. It is not that I am not tempted, but a woman has work to do so he must settle for a kiss. I turn to my brushes and pins.
“I enjoy watching you pin your hair,” he says, and my eyes meet his in my looking glass. He curls his shoulders like a shy boy. “I like the turn of your neck.”
It is high time my husband’s mind was taken out of the bedroom and into the day. “Are you going to the funeral?” I say.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Nat reaches for his breeches. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m meeting William on Ludgate Hill.”
I am absurdly pleased that he has asked. I rush to see that the fire is lit downstairs. I want to be ready in time.
***
We do not talk much. The warm thickness of his arm underneath mine contents me, and besides, I doubt we could hear each other over the rattle of coach wheels and the shrill cries of a street-hawker, selling oysters by the peck. I’m happy to see William smiling when he finds I am to join them. He has a long, thin face, very sombre when still, but a sweet boyish smile. I used to think he must be too shy to be a schoolteacher, but I have learned that he is the kind of man to use humour and patience as his brand of strength.
The Strand, when we get there, is even busier than usual. Men and women are gathered, stern-faced and grim, with arms folded across chests. Some whisper of conspiracy while others discuss the murder in outraged tones. Several m
akeshift trestles have been set out in front of closed and shuttered shops. They are crowded with customers. It takes us a few moments to worm our way in and see what all the fuss is about.
“Good grief!” Nat reacts quickly. I only see rows of silver medals, but when I pick one up I understand. On one side, there is a rough image of a man – obviously intended to be Godfrey – with a noose around his neck and a sword in his chest. And on the other side? Only the Pope himself, giving his blessing to Godfrey’s murderers.
“And look here!” I drop the medal and pull him along to the next stall. “What do you think of these, Nathaniel?” It is a small iron blade with the words ‘Remember the murder of Edmund Godfrey. Remember religion’ engraved on the side.
“You mean, apart from my awed admiration of the quick wit and entrepreneurial skill of our fellow men?”
His sarcasm I expect, but William and I are both surprised when Nat buys one. He puts it into my hands as we step back into the flow of people.
“A Godfrey dagger,” he says.
“Why buy it? I thought you hated such things.”
“I do. When I heard they were the most popular souvenirs on the streets in the last few days, I didn’t really believe it. I had to buy one just to appreciate that they’re real.”
Not for the first time, I’m anxious about what is happening in the city. My thoughts go to my father. He is probably here somewhere, as worked up as anyone about the Catholic threat.
“Is it true, Nat? Is what people are saying true?”
“That depends what you’ve heard. And who you speak to.”
We walk on in silence. Nat’s face is gloomier than I like it. When he worries, he looks older; his brows shade the normal brightness of his eyes, his cheeks look gaunt, and his wide, generous mouth thins to a line. I squeeze his hand and wait. I have seen the clouds come down around his head before. There is certainly something going on in London, that’s why there’s such a fuss over the funeral of poor Justice Godfrey. All the talk is of Catholic plots. It’s hard to believe, but with so much concern, it’s hard not to believe it either.
The Road to Newgate Page 2