by Toni Mount
Upon our right hand, wild roses spangled the hedgerow along the roadside in blushed profusion. The golden crowns at their hearts glowed in the slanting rays of the westering sun, like royal diadems. Bees still buzzed from flower to flower in the fading warmth of day. Meadowsweet spires spilled frothy flowers and honeyed scent upon the air.
It was a glorious evening.
Moths flitted, rousing from their daytime slumbers, but a late-flying butterfly, barred red upon richest brown, crossed our way. Gawain gave chase, snapping and missing. It landed upon a clump of verdant nettles, bold as mercenaries and as well-armed. The butterfly seemed not to notice their stinging weapons, at which I wondered when they afflicted men – and nosy dogs – to our great annoyance.
Gawain retreated from the nettles, abandoning his pursuit of the butterfly. He pawed at his stung snout. Unsympathetic, Adam and I laughed. For once, it was a relief to find merriment in the misfortunes of another.
The daisies in the grass closed their sleepy eyes. The birds were falling quiet but for the crooning of a lovesome pair of turtle doves in a stand of coppiced hazel and a yellowhammer, chirping out his last short song, until the morrow’s dawn-light should summon him to sing anew.
Smithfield lay, a soft emerald meadow, in the gentle light. Coneys cropped the turf and moved away, unhurried, at our trespass. Of course, Gawain thought to play chase with them but they seemed to guess he was of little threat and only in leisurely wise did their white scuts disappear down holes hid ’neath the bramble bushes.
As shadows stretched ever longer, we completed our slow circuit of the Horse Pool where bulrushes stood tall in velvet and yellow water lilies sailed upon still waters. The sky paled overhead to a canopy of crystalline blue, painted towards the west with every hue of amber and copper as the sun sank lower into his feathered cloud-bed. The air felt warm against my cheek: a maiden’s caress. We did not speak; words were not needed. My dear cousin knew his sorcery had worked its magic upon me. I was soothed and calm in mind, as I had not been for so long. But as e’er be the way of things, such peace was not to last.
We were back within Newgate, walking along the deserted Shambles. Even upon this, the Lord’s Day, the stink of butchery lingered, to be increased tenfold come Monday morn. Gawain went sniffing in corners, disturbed a rat’s nest, sending the serpent-tailed creatures fleeing in all directions.
Of a sudden, there came a shout of ‘Stop thief!’ from farther along Bladder Street. That set off the hubbub of the hue-and-cry. Neighbours hastened onto the street, sounding horns, clattering spoons on pots and pans, adding to the din. It meant Adam and I were obliged to join the chase, pursuing the miscreant, whoever he might be. Adam sprinted ahead, fleet of foot, with Gawain running at full speed, thinking this a fine game. They turned up Noble Street, betwixt the precinct of St Martin-le-Grand and the Goldsmiths’ Hall, disappearing from my sight, along with the crowd of others who ran, hoping to apprehend the villain.
Never much of a runner myself, I soon lagged behind, keeping company with a breathless old man and a woman encumbered with a sleeping infant on her shoulder and armed with a hefty ladle. We would ne’er catch the most sluggardly criminal but the law demanded we make the effort, or be fined for aiding and abetting the same. My hip was hindering my progress, slow as it was, and by the time we reached St Vedast’s Church at the lower end of Noble Street, I had to pause to ease my protesting bones. The old man stopped beside me to catch his breath, the woman too.
It was then that I glanced up the alleyway beside the church. A pile of rubbish half-blocked the narrow passage. All was filth and grime and stank of stale piss. Yet there was just light sufficient to see a flash of red: a good shoe, I realised, protruding from behind the unsavoury heap of detritus.
I pointed it out to the old man, then put my finger to my lips.
The old man nodded his understanding. He and I crept forth into the alley. Like so many such passages around the city, this one ended in a blank wall beyond the rubbish. There would be no escape for the vermilion-shod thief – if it were he. I stepped around a broken, handle-less bucket and then a collection of rusted metal odds and ends so as not to alert our quarry. When we drew within a yard or two, we both dashed forward, shouting ‘Hold! Hold, villain!’
A middle-aged fellow leaped from his place of concealment and attempted to push us aside. I shoved him in one direction and the old man tripped him. As the culprit staggered back along the alley, into Noble Street, the woman with the infant awaited him. Her skilful use of the ladle without rousing the child was remarkable. She brought it down upon his head, then whacked him across his middle. He went sprawling in the dirt. The clang of metal as he hit the ground revealed his ill-gotten gains, hidden ’neath his jerkin. A gilded candlestick rolled aside, its partner lay sorely dented – mayhap by the ladle blow – beside the fallen fellow. We had caught our thief.
We dragged him to his feet and shook him awake, marching him back to Bladder Street. I had the stolen candlesticks tucked under my arm. The rascal began complaining and attempted to pull free as his senses rallied but the woman threatened him with the ladle and he came quietly, resigned to his fate.
The householder he had robbed greeted us as heroes, the more so when I returned the candlesticks, though he sorrowed at the damage done. We said naught concerning the ladle as the possible cause of the dents.
‘Ale! Ale for all!’ the householder cried as those who had spent their strength in the hue-and-cry began to trickle back, to report that the thief had got clean away. Most were delighted that we had apprehended the culprit but a few were annoyed to have gone to so much effort for no purpose. Others – including Adam – were disappointed to have missed out on the moment of capture.
‘There was naught exciting about it, cousin,’ I assured him.
‘Did he put up much of a fight?’ someone else asked.
I was about to tell him ‘nay’ but the old man – Todd by name, as I learned – made answer for me.
‘I’ll say. The devil fought us like… like a devil. Kicking and flailing and yelling filthy words at me, young Seb here, oh, and Alice… her with the babe-in-arms. So we pummelled him and took him by force, didn’t we Seb? He was lashing out, all to no avail. We was too much for him, wasn’t we?’
The event grew in the telling, Todd elaborating and inventing new details to each new listener who asked. He and I became more heroic in our actions as the evening wore on; the woman, Alice, the true heroine with her ladle, became relegated to the role of a mere on-looker. By the time the city bailiff, my friend Thaddeus Turner, arrived to take the thief into custody, Todd’s tale had become one of knights-errant upon some holy quest. He told Thaddeus how we had wrestled the sword-wielding scoundrel of unsurpassed strength to the ground, despite his casting of evil charms upon us, taking many a cut and buffet in exchange – no matter that we bore not a solitary mark from our encounter.
I shook my head behind Todd’s back, such that Thaddeus should see me.
‘I shall make a true report on the morrow,’ I mouthed to him, not wishing to spoil Todd’s hour of glory.
Chapter 4
Monday, the fourteenth day of June
The Foxley House
That morn, I permitted Jack a good breakfast, allowing him second helpings such that he should not think I was sending him away in haste. E’en so, he took his time consuming the meal, far longer than need be. Eventually, concerned that he would arrive tardily at Stephen Appleyard’s workshop, I told him to hasten and collect his bundle of belongings.
His face was the very image of one betrayed, disgruntled at the injustice of his predicament.
I had to harden my heart.
‘This ain’t fair, you knows that,’ he grumbled. ‘Ain’t fair, I tells you.’
‘You did wrong; you pay the price,’ Adam said as he left the board to go open the shop. ‘Now get to work, you idle young toad
.’
I touched my cousin’s arm, gesturing him to say no more. I did not want Jack’s departure to be upon a sour note.
‘I shall call by Appleyard’s place anon,’ I told him. ‘To see you settled.’
‘Don’t bovver yerself on my account,’ the lad muttered. He picked up his belongings, which he had left by the back door and slung the bundle over his shoulder. It was but a few items: a clean shirt, braies and hose and a carven creature of a size to sit in a man’s hand. I had not seen it afore but it was recognisable as a likeness of his dog, Little Beggar, of late memory. I never knew Jack had made such a thing. It showed a degree of skill with a knife on wood such that was ne’er apparent with charcoal on paper. The lad had a good eye for proportion and representation, after all. He tucked the figure within his bundle, as though none were meant to see it: his privy tribute to a lost friend. It quite put a catch in my voice as I bade him ‘God bless’.
Guildhall
Upon her arrival, I set Kate to work with pestle and mortar, doing my utmost to behave towards her as though naught had changed in her circumstances. Why then did I give the lass the most thankless task of grinding a considerable lump of yellow ochre to fine powder? Was it by way of punishment? I could not say. Mayhap, it was.
My next task was to make report of last eve’s arrest of the thief to Bailiff Thaddeus Turner at Guildhall though, in truth, I could ill-spare the time with the king’s commission requiring my fullest attention. Nevertheless, it was better to get that done than to be interrupted once I had begun my work.
‘God give you good day, my friend,’ Thaddeus said when I entered his chamber. ‘You need not have troubled, Seb. I heard that you have a royal commission to keep you occupied, so I wasn’t going to bother you.’
‘Why so? Do you not require my report?’
Thaddeus shrugged and held up a cup and jug.
‘Ale?’
‘Nay, I thank you.’
‘I had a most detailed report from that elderly fellow: Todd was his name?’
‘Aye, I was there when he regaled us with his extensive piece of embroidery. ’Twas a veritable weaving of myth and imagination. I thought you might want a plain and simple report without extraneous embellishment.’
‘In honesty, Seb, I’m not sure what to do about this particular crime. You certain you won’t have ale? I would appreciate your opinion on it.’
‘Oh, very well but a crime is a crime, is it not? Do you argue otherwise?’
‘Sit and hear my arguments, if you will.’
Over ale, Thaddeus told me of the man – the thief we had taken in possession of his ill-gotten gains.
‘His name is Philip Hartnell, a most respectable citizen and a cutler by craft. He said he was walking along Bladder Street, passed the house with its window wide to the pleasant evening air when he saw the candlesticks by the open casement. At a glance, he was quite certain they were the same ones he had bought his wife as a wedding gift ten years since. His wife has much fondness for the sticks, so he took them, thinking to please her.’
‘Had they been stolen away from him previously, then? Is that the way of it?’ I sipped my ale. Thaddeus did likewise afore continuing.
‘That was my first thought. I tell you, Seb, it took a deal of cajoling and probing to get the truth out of Philip Hartnell. The candlesticks weren’t stolen from him but he apparently gave his goodwife to think they had been taken. The truth is that Hartnell has fallen into debt. He took the candlesticks to a goldsmith and sold them to pay off a sizeable loan. When his wife found them gone, she was much upset – more so than Hartnell ever expected. Thus, he told her they had been stolen, rather than admit his actions and the fact that he was over the ears in debt to a moneylender.’
‘An unfortunate situation but how does that excuse his actions of yestereve?’
‘It doesn’t. Besides, the candlesticks he stole from the house in Bladder Street were never his. Similar in shape but not the same ones.’
‘He has no right to them, even had they been the same. He sold them and has had the profit from the sale. Hartnell is a thief and we caught him. He deserves just punishment, does he not? I do not see any reason for your difficulties in this matter, Thaddeus.’
‘He has never had any dealings with the law before, Seb. He’s a respected member of the Cutlers’ Company and a church-warden. He loves his wife and family, works hard and earns a good living.’
‘Not good enough, so it would seem, else why would he be in debt?’
‘A foolish mistake, he said, though he withheld further details. I had the feeling another woman was involved. In every other respect, Hartnell is a decent citizen. I think he deserves a second chance.’
‘What of the house in Bladder Street? The folk he robbed? Not to mention all the neighbourhood having to rally to the hue-and-cry.’
‘The candlesticks were returned – dented, it’s true but Hartnell says he will pay for their repair. The householder is agreeable. Besides…’
Thaddeus drained his ale.
‘Besides?’ I prompted.
‘Philip Hartnell is not alone, Seb. He is the fourth… no, the fifth respectable citizen that has come to my notice, by one means or another, who has found himself in debt and unable to repay. There’s something going on in London, concerning underhanded financial dealings, and I don’t like the smell of it.
‘Watch your purse, my friend. Every one of them is of middling status like you. Outwardly decent and honest, yet they find themselves in dire need, monetarily. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.’
‘Fear not. I owe no man so much as a ha’penny. So you will let Hartnell go?’
‘Aye. I think so. Both Newgate and the Counter are overfull of vile inmates. Hartnell is not of their kind. They’d make a hearty supper of him on his first day inside.’
‘As you think best, Thaddeus. Forgive me: I must hasten. I have the king’s book to begin and another errand to complete aforehand…’
I went to Stephen Appleyard’s workshop, not to see how Jack was bearing up – although he did appear to think that to be my reason. He put on a grumpy expression purposefully, as I suspect, when I entered. I had come to collect my gift for little Dickon, the morrow being the first anniversary of his birth. ’Twas a strange thing: the year had passed so swiftly, it was hard to believe and yet it was difficult recall the time afore God had granted us the blessing of this dear child.
I had written out the texts for a special hornbook for his gift, the kind that enables little ones to learn their letters, Paternoster, Ave Maria and Credo. Dickon deserves the best a scribe’s son could have. Thus, I had used coloured inks: red for the Paternoster, virgin blue for the Ave and a bright green for the Credo, all on good parchment. Upon a second parchment, to form the reverse, I had written most distinctly each capital letter in the ABC, accompanied by its smaller version, alternating red and blue inks. I filled the remaining space with the image of Noah’s Ark, the tiny animals in their pairs, disappearing into the distance, ever smaller around the margins. I hoped it would please him. I had bought a sheet of fine, clear ox horn and had the horner cut it in two, such that the two small pieces of parchment, back to back, fitted betwixt the sheets of horn.
I was well pleased when Stephen showed me the result of his craftsmanship. He had encased and surrounded the sheets of horn in a lime-wood frame – lime being fine-grained and most suitable for detailed carving. He had continued my queue of animals for Noah’s Ark around the frame, carving out their likenesses. The pair of horses was exquisitely wrought and the pigs’ expressions so comical, I laughed aloud at the sight of them. Upon the frame’s handle was carven Noah himself, quite the patriarch with his long beard and stern features, his hand raised in blessing – both of the animals and the young reader of the texts. ’Twas a thing of beauty but also amusing and – as I intended – no common hornbook for a Fox
ley. My son would learn to read and find the task a pleasurable one, I hoped.
The Foxley House
Back home, a surprise awaited me. Months might pass without my setting eyes upon a piece of correspondence, unless I read it for someone unlettered or of poor sight: most commonly her son’s letters for Dame Ellen Langton. Yet this morn three letters had come for me. The first had been brought from the Stationers’ Guild, delivered by young Hugh Gardyner - a fact that much delighted Kate. But the others thrilled me more forwhy I knew at once the hand that wrote them: my brother Jude.
I had received but one letter from him since he had departed London at last summer’s end, bound for none knew where. That had come with the last merchants’ ships of the season, afore the winter storms sent every vessel to seek safe harbour. The letter had been dated to the midst of September, informing me that Jude was in some place called Mechelen in Burgundy. The name meant little to me, my knowledge of the world beyond England – or even London – being sparse, indeed. But he had met the Duchess Margaret – sister to King Edward and Duke Richard of Gloucester – who required me to make a Book of Hours for her, my skills having been recommended unto her by Lord Richard.
That was the last I had heard of my brother, until now.
I had made the tiny book, according to the instructions enclosed with my brother’s letter. I had sent the finished volume – with which I was much pleased – by way of a Dutch merchant risking everything in an attempt to sail home to be with his family for Christmas. I have heard naught of it since. Mayhap I was foolish to send it then and the Dutchman came to grief, lost in the Narrow Seas. I know not of it, whatever the case.
Now I had two further epistles from Jude. Eager as a child, I prised off the waxen seal of one with my knife and read the words, drinking them down as a man denied water for so long. The first was written at Michaelmastide, just a fortnight after the first was sent. I wondered where it had been in the meantime. He had written from a city called Koln, said he was well and travelling with a band of pilgrims, returning home to Florence, having visited the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury and other holy places. He had become friends with a fellow from Venezia by the name of Alessandro. They intended to cross the Alpines – whatever that may be – afore the snows blocked the passes.