Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  Sir Ralph was now speaking with great deliberation through clenched teeth.

  ‘Trade is slack because of unrest in the country. He has destroyed one of our prime spice markets, taken our bullion from under our noses, placed the whole merchant fleet at risk to Spanish attack… and now wants to degrade our currency… our reputation… the respect and trust we have earned as merchants… by creating tens of thousands of mean little BRASS LIES, each one STAMPED WITH HIS FACE!’

  The final words erupted in a thunderous roar. His eyes and neck bulging, his face flushed crimson, Sir Ralph leapt towards the open hatch and flung the gold crown across the wharf into the river, then slumped back in his seat.

  ‘No doubt this brass money will be used as another threat, to make the City advance him a further loan but, by God, it is making us a laughing stock.’

  Tom had a pitcher of beer in the loft and he offered a mug to his father. They sat in silence as the muffled conversations below resumed. The storm had passed.

  Finally his father spoke again, staring through the hatch at the sun’s rays glittering on the Thames.

  ‘You see, Tom, I have weathered heavy seas and can live with religious intolerance and political unrest. But without commercial stability we have no compass and are truly at the mercy of the elements. I daresay we will find ways to survive, the Tallants usually do, but we are sailing in dangerous, uncharted waters.’

  Sir Ralph emptied his tankard and turned to his son.

  ‘However, that is not why I visited, Tom. I am anxious to know how go your affairs. What news of Isaac’s nephew? It was dangerous to put yourself in Henry Jermyn’s debt.’

  Tom thought about his undertaking to Jermyn back in May. He had searched all summer for information on the Dutch pamphlets, but to no avail.

  ‘I felt the same after I met him, Father. It is hard to describe, but Jermyn has the… the smell of power about him.’

  ‘The stench, you mean,’ Sir Ralph snorted. ‘It’s a murky world he inhabits. You would do well to keep out of his clutches. The man is not to be trusted. I know you care for Isaac, as do we all. But I tell you, your search for the source of the Dutch news sheets has not gone down well with many Dutch and English merchants. They don’t like you digging around for information about secret shipments, particularly if you’re asking on behalf of the King. Once again I’ve been fence-mending. Tom, I must tell you your stock in the City is near rock bottom.’

  Tom shrugged. He knew his father was right but, since his return from India ten months ago, it felt like anything he did caused offence to someone.

  ‘It seems to have come to nothing anyway, Father. I asked my London contacts but no one knew anything. I even questioned Sam, our warehouse apprentice, who works for Sheffard’s but he could not help. So I sailed to Amsterdam to investigate. I did trace the original owners of the type but they had lent it several years ago to another printer. Apparently it was then sold to a private individual and the trail went cold. I dreaded returning to Jermyn empty-handed and was shaking while I waited two hours to see his secretary at Whitehall. I am not sure which felt stronger, the relief or the anger, when I was finally told Jermyn had left London for the summer and was currently accompanying Her Majesty the Queen during her confinement at Oatlands Palace.’

  ‘And let me guess, Jermyn had not left a message for you?’

  ‘His secretary had never heard of me and said I was fortunate to see him when they were so busy with the King’s business. I then tried my last few contacts before abandoning the search. Hopefully Jermyn is not interested in the pamphlets anymore and, as far as I know, Arthur is still alive in Newgate, unlike the two others they arrested at Lambeth. They went to the gibbet. At least I have saved him from that.’

  ‘I thought you might say that, which is why I’m here.’ Sir Ralph reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a crumpled news sheet. ‘The pamphlets are still being published, Tom. I acquired this in Thames Street yesterday.’

  Tom took the pamphlet and smoothed out the creases. He read the title: “The Intentions of the Armie of the Kingdome of Scotland: Declared to their Bretheren of England by the Commisioners of the Late Parliament, and by the Generall, Noblement, Barrons, and Other Officers of the Armie.”

  The news sheet spelt out the peaceful intentions of the Scottish army which was massing at the border. The boldness of the message and the open link with Parliament astonished him. Jermyn was right. This was an organised campaign to win the hearts of the people of London, here on the streets of the city.

  ‘Her Majesty has safely been delivered of her son and the threat of plague is receding, so she and Jermyn will be back soon,’ Sir Ralph continued. ‘On his return to London Jermyn will be asked by Charles why he hasn’t stopped those damned Scottish newsletters. At that point, Jermyn will be after you like the hounds of hell. The only difference is that three months will have elapsed and nothing achieved, which will not improve his temper.’

  Tom shuddered. In his heart he had known this but had convinced himself that events had moved on. He had also been put off digging deeper by a furious row with his brother Peter, the like of which he had never experienced before.

  Peter had visited him at the warehouse a month after his meeting with Jermyn. It was not a social call. He said the riverfront was alive with talk of Thomas Tallant’s search for an illegal press. Peter wanted to know why his brother was helping Henry Jermyn to suppress the truth about the King’s Scottish campaign.

  Tom endured a ten minute sermon on the criminal acts of Archbishop Laud, imposing the English Book of Prayer on the Scots and making them observe the same popish ceremonies in their churches that he had inflicted on the English. Tom explained Arthur’s predicament but Peter said he was a fool to expect Jermyn to lift a finger to help the boy. He accused Tom of doing Laud and Jermyn’s dirty work before storming out of the warehouse, leaving Tom shaken to the core.

  Tom told all this to Sir Ralph while they sat in the warehouse, and then also disclosed Peter’s involvement with the Coleman Street radicals, which he didn’t feel he could keep a secret any longer. Not for the first time, his father surprised him.

  ‘Yes, I am aware of this. He has been active in Coleman Street since he approached the Massachusetts Bay Company to found colonies in America.’ Sir Ralph held up his hand. ‘I know, I know, there are hotheads there but every man must follow his course in life, and I trust Peter’s judgement. But do not tell your mother. She worries too much.’

  And you worry more than you are letting on, Tom thought. I can see it in your face.

  Sir Ralph stood up wearily. ‘So I am not sure what you will say to Henry Jermyn, but I suggest you have something prepared for when he comes calling, as he will. Best to admit defeat and let the boy Arthur take his chances. You have done all you can, Tom. Everyone, including Isaac, recognises that.’

  Sir Ralph headed towards the steps.

  ‘By the way, I was at Sheffard’s last week, to arrange their next ink shipment from Antwerp. I remembered Sam worked there in his spare time and asked how he was getting on. They looked a little puzzled as he had not been with them for over two months. They assumed he was too busy at the warehouse. I don’t think they were best pleased, Tom, as he did not give them notice he was leaving. You might want to have a word with that young man about his manners.’

  Chapter 15

  20th August 1640

  Thames Street

  Tom pressed his back against a wall and held his breath. Rivulets of water seeped through his cloak collar and down his back. He shuddered and looked skywards. London was blanketed in unseasonal grey cloud and the rain had been relentless since first light. Tom was glad. Everyone was hiding beneath their cloaks and hats, looking for a safe footing as summer dust turned to thick mud. No one was paying attention to others, which suited Tom because he was in secret pursuit of Samuel Barnes.

  Isaac had confirmed Sam still worked for Sheffard’s, often arriving at the warehouse in the morning w
ith fresh ink stains on his hands.

  ‘But I think he’s getting tired, Master. Twice last week I spotted mistakes in the stock ledger,' said Isaac. ‘Sam apologised but I can see his mind has not been on the job. I will give it another few days and have a word, if it’s still a problem.’

  So Tom was now following his apprentice, keeping out of sight. If Sam was still printing, but not for Sheffard, then for whom? And why was he keeping it secret? If they were printing illegally, Sam might be able to find out from them who was distributing the Scottish pamphlets. He had watched his young apprentice leave work at six that evening and walk up the path to Thames Street. He paused and turned left, disappearing from view. So far, so good, Tom thought, as he put on his thickest cloak and walked briskly into the rain. Sheffard’s was located near Lombard Street. Sam was heading in the right direction.

  Tom followed Sam down Thames Street and right onto Fish Street Hill, the main road north from London Bridge. It was easy to remain hidden among the crowds on the Hill and, as he carried on to Grace Church Street, Tom began to relax. Sam was heading for Sheffard’s, and when his young apprentice turned left into Lombard Street Tom’s relief turned to shame for doubting him.

  As soon as he moves into Pope’s Head Alley, Tom thought, I will return home with my tail between my legs, and no closer to tracing the source of these pamphlets. He felt despair seeping into his bones as the rain soaked through his clothes. What would he tell Jermyn?

  Lost in his thoughts, Tom noticed with a start that he had passed Pope’s Head Alley on his right. He went back and looked down the dark lane but could not see Sam. Damnation! After walking miles in the pouring rain, he had missed the moment of proof he was seeking. His boots were soaked and he could feel the cold water numbing his toes.

  With a weary sigh he peered ahead, along Lombard Street. There was Sam striding through the rain, head still bowed. What are you up to, Tom thought, and, with all subterfuge abandoned, he started running up Lombard Street. Tom slid and slipped in the deepening mud as he entered Poultry in time to see Sam cut down Old Jewry on his right. Tom began to panic. If he gets too far ahead of me, I will lose him in the alleys.

  Tom ran to the entrance of Old Jewry and turned into the lane. Through a curtain of rain a dark figure wearing a blue cloak loomed into view. Tom tried to stop but slid at full speed into the man’s back. He bounced off the stranger and landed in the mud of the street.

  ‘I must apologise, sir,’ Tom spluttered, as he struggled to gain his footing. ‘I was running—’ The words died in Tom’s throat. The man was striding off down old Jewry without a backward glance. There, only yards ahead, Sam Barnes was stooping down, squeezing water out of his cloak ends. Tom scrambled to his feet and quickly stepped back into Poultry, rubbing his arm. The stranger’s body had been as hard as iron. If he had not collided with the man, he could have run straight into Sam. How would he have explained that?

  Tom pushed the question to one side. He must not lose sight of Sam. He waited another five seconds before carefully peering into Old Jewry in time to see his apprentice disappear around a corner. Here we go again. Minutes later Sam was on Coleman Street heading for the city wall at Moorgate. The rain appeared to be relenting as he passed through the wall and started walking up Little Moor Fields. Tom peered into the gloom. Sam had disappeared but Tom could see a sign for “Gunn Alley” with a painted cannon, swinging at the end of an entry on his left. He stopped and looked around the corner. Sam was standing at the end of the alley. He looked around before disappearing through a doorway. Tom hurried down the alley, saw the sign depicting three barrels above the doorway and his heart sank. He’d heard of The Three Tuns tavern. Had he half-drowned to witness Sam getting drunk with friends? Should he wait outside for Sam? But then Tom would not see who Sam was meeting. He shivered with cold as a stream of water poured off the tavern roof and formed a lake around his feet. The thought of spending another minute in the downpour made the decision easy.

  The air in the Three Tuns was thick with the steam of drying clothes, the smell of cooked meat and a clamour of conversation. Tom stood near the entrance and surveyed the single-roomed tavern. It did not take long to spot Sam, sitting at a table with his back to the entrance. Tom counted four other men at the same table and knew in an instant they were not apprentices. Too old and, by the look of them, too worldly-wise.

  Tom took off his cloak, hung it by the fire and found a table near Sam, sitting back to back to his apprentice. He could hear the toasts and cheers as more ale arrived at Sam's table. Tom ordered food, tried to get sensation back in his feet and fingers, and listened carefully.

  An hour later, Tom had heard enough. Sam’s party was celebrating the publication of a pamphlet but he couldn’t see any on their table. Sam had said little but enough to convince Tom his tongue had been loosened by the ale. It was time to act. He took a deep breath and, swivelling on his bench seat, tapped Sam on the shoulder. Sam did not notice but the others did. The conversation stopped as Tom tapped Sam’s shoulder again. His apprentice turned and the grin on his face froze.

  ‘Master Tom? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sheltering from the rain and supping an ale like you, Sam. Will you not introduce me to your friends?’

  The mood changed. Sam stuttered and tried to say something. A large man in a red jerkin spoke.

  ‘Who do you be, brother, if you are acquainted with our friend Samuel?’

  Sam looked at the rushes on the tavern floor, unable to speak.

  ‘I am Thomas Tallant, the merchant, and Sam is my apprentice.’

  Tom did not expect what happened next. To a man, they leapt to their feet and cheered at the top of their voices. Tom was slapped on the back, offered a place on the bench next to Sam and had his hand shaken vigorously by each man in turn. Red Jerkin spoke again.

  ‘I propose a toast. To Master Thomas Tallant and the “Perfumed Press”.’

  The four men roared with laughter and banged the table with their tankards. Red Jerkin winked at Tom and sat down again.

  Tom’s mind was racing. What was going on? All the colour had drained from Sam’s face.

  ‘So, another pamphlet successfully printed, gentlemen?’ Tom said.

  The men nodded and smiled at each other.

  ‘But not here? I was hoping to see a copy.’

  The table fell silent and Red Jerkin grabbed Tom’s arm. He pulled him close and whispered hoarsely, ‘Steady there, friend. Keep your voice down. You know we cannot show it here. The Stationer’s Company has spies everywhere.’

  ‘I need to piss.’ It was Sam, stumbling from his seat and heading unsteadily for the door.

  Tom wanted to follow but that would arouse suspicion. What had Sam said to make him so popular? For some reason, he was seen as a benefactor by this group. When their senses cleared, these men would wonder why he was in the tavern. He had to uncover the truth before that happened. He ordered more ale. The mood lifted and the men broke into individual conversations around the table. Sam returned and sat silently next to Tom, who turned and whispered in his ear. ‘Sam, I will soon order another ale for everyone and then you and I are going to leave. Understood?’ Sam nodded glumly. ‘And keep smiling, for goodness sake. We do not want to raise any suspicions, do we?’

  Tom chose his moment ten minutes later. He ordered food and more ale and, as the trays of meat arrived, he stood.

  ‘Gentlemen. Sam and I must leave you. We are expecting a cargo from Antwerp on the morning tide so we will be at work by daybreak.’ Groans and shaking of heads around the table. ‘Yes. Pity poor us! But you have reason to celebrate and I’— here Tom lowered his voice— ‘I thank you for the important work you are doing.’

  There was a growl of appreciation around the table. Red Jerkin rose to his feet unsteadily and held Tom in a long and heavy embrace.

  Tom shook his hand and hauled Sam to his feet, hissing in his ear, ‘Get your cloak and let’s be out of here before they realise I do not have
a clue what I am talking about. You have some explaining to do, young man.’

  Outside, the rain had finally ceased. Tom and Sam silently picked their way through the mud and the darkness of Gunn Alley, retracing their steps to Moorgate. Tom did not pause until they were back inside the city wall. He had intended to question Sam in the warmth of his warehouse but his anger would not allow him to wait. As they approached the end of Coleman Street Tom grabbed Sam’s collar and hauled him down King’s Arms Yard into the shadows. Sam squeaked in protest.

  ‘Not a word, Sam, or I will not answer for my actions.’

  Tom spat his words into Sam’s terrified face. Near the end of the yard, Tom spotted a recessed doorway and pushed his apprentice into it. The moon slipped from behind a cloud, revealing Sam’s sullen form in the doorway. He said nothing. Tom tried to speak with a measured voice but his fury was near the surface.

  ‘Sam. You must tell me this minute what is going on. Who are those men? What is the Perfumed Press? And why do they cheer me like a hero?’

  Tom tried to maintain his composure. Sam mumbled something.

  ‘What was that?’

  Sam raised his head, his tear-stained face shining in the moonlight.

  ‘I said you have no right. You have no right to drag me into a side alley and question me like this. I am your apprentice. There are rules about how a master should treat his app—’

  Tom grabbed Sam by the throat and threw him against the doorway, the back of his head hitting the door. Sam slumped forward and Tom grabbed his cloak with his left hand. His right fist arced and buried itself in the apprentice’s stomach. The young man groaned as his legs collapsed beneath him. Tom released his grip and Sam slid to the floor, gasping for breath.

  Tom threw himself back against the wall and stood panting, looking up at the stars. Months of anxiety and frustration had erupted in twenty seconds of violence. Sam was soon on his hands and knees, puking like a dog. Eventually he stopped retching and crawled to the doorway where he sat, breathing heavily. Tom slid down the wall to sit next to him.