by Toni Mount
In the event, seven dancers untangled themselves, giggling and laughing, brushing down skirts and retrieving caps. No one called me a fool, nor pointed me out as the cause of it all. Adam and Rose assisted me to my feet and Kate hastened over with my ale. I was spared humiliation, Jesu be thanked.
The others went off to light the first of the St John’s bonfires but Rose and I returned to the Cardinal’s Hat, where Nessie, with Gawain’s aid, had been keeping watch over the babes. The inn was emptying now and stools stood vacant. I grabbed one and eased down awkwardly upon it.
‘Nessie,’ I said. ‘You may go join the others at the bonfires. I will look to the children.’
She was gone afore I completed the sentence. Who knew she could move with such alacrity?
‘And what of you, Rose? Do you not wish to share in the lighting?’
She shook her head. Much of her hair had cascaded from her cap when we fell and, though she attempted to tidy it, long tresses lay in disarray over her shoulders. The hue of ripened wheat but shimmering like starlight on water, I longed to stroke her hair.
‘I’m sorry about the dance, Seb. I should have realised your hip…’
‘’Twas I asked you, if you recall.’
‘Aye, but you only did it to please me, you great chivalrous knight.’ She smiled. ‘I liked being called a lady, even in jest. But it was one dance too many for you. I’m sorry for that.’
‘Rose. If not for my leg, I should dance every dance with you through all eternity.’
‘There you are: playing the court gallant again with your foolish, pretty poetry.’
And yet, in that moment, I felt that I truly did mean those words. Mayhap, I had consumed more ale than I thought.
The fire was lit. All cheered and drank to midsummer and a good harvest coming, if the Lord God and the weather continued to oblige. Flame gathered strength and leapt higher into the star-speckled night. Young fools dared each other to dash as close as they might without singeing. One caught his trailing sleeve afire and was doused by his fellows. A dancing circle formed around the blaze, singing the traditional song, accompanied by beating tabors to keep the rhythm.
I did not join the dance this time, which proved fortunate. A stray spark caught the dry grasses by the entrance to the alleyway, where I leaned, watching. The grasses flared up, threatening the low corner of a thatched byre. I found a water bucket close at hand, intended for the purpose, and extinguished the greedy flames ere damage was done. It would not be the last unintended fire of the night – it never was. St John’s Night in the close-packed city was not without hazard.
The flames were yet leaping but most folk were too weary as we all escorted Mercy Hutchinson home to Distaff Lane, the sleeping children being more than one woman could carry alone. I bore Dickon in my arms as I made my way, trying my utmost to refrain from limping but my gait was uneven, all the same. Adam carried his soon-to-be stepson, Nicholas – a heavy load in more ways than one. Mercy had her own infant, Mundy, and Rose cradled my tiny daughter, Julia.
We left Adam saying a fond farewell to his beloved and assisting her in settling the babes abed. Only Dickon was coming home with Rose, Kate, Nessie and me. Stephen Appleyard went to his house alone, Jack having disappeared with some fellow apprentices hours ago. I prayed the lad might not get into mischief nor trouble the Watch.
Weary though we were, Rose and Kate yet had life enough that they danced along, hand in hand, singing as we turned into Paternoster Row. I watched Rose with new eyes now. Why had I not realised what beauty dwelt ’neath my own roof? I suppose I had seen naught but my Emily until now and Rose had been my brother’s intended. I would ne’er trespass on another man’s claim. But Emily – may God assoil her – was no more and foolish Jude had wed elsewhere. Adam had found Mercy, their nuptials planned for September, after harvest. But I had no one and neither did Rose. Was this meant to be?
At least I had my own bed in my own chamber this night but, though weary of body, my mind was yet wakeful. Sleep eluded me.
Belatedly, I recalled that money was not all I had meant to speak of with Jude. I also wanted to enquire of my brother what he had meant when he spoke of the Italians ‘nailing’. After all, that was what had been done to both the murder victims, their right hands literally nailed down. I was beginning to wonder – what with money being so involved in all this matter – if the Italian bankers might have some connection to these vile crimes.
But that was for the morrow. As Dame Fortune would have it, our most recent parting had been in friendly wise and not as previously. Who could say what my brother’s temperament might be in the morn, what with an ale-heavy head and, mayhap, an empty purse. I would take the risk – except that I knew no more where he might be then than when I had searched this day. No matter. I would not think upon that now.
I composed myself, lying back upon the pillows and closed my eyes. Far beyond the open window casement, the distant sounds of folk yet merry-making drifted in, along with the scent of wood smoke. I turned my thoughts to wheaten hair and sparkling eyes, smiling and at peace with myself.
Chapter 17
Friday, the twenty-fifth day of June
The Foxley House
False coins were becoming a plague in the city. This morn, when I took time to look more closely at the coin Jude had given me last eve, quite a number of them proved counterfeit. What had seemed to be a generous repayment of fifteen shillings and ninepence of the £5 and more that he owed me – not to mention the jewellery – was not. The true value of the money, after purchasing a jug of ale at the Cardinal’s Hat, was less than a mark. Twelve shillings and seven pence, to be exact. I should have to go to Guildhall and hand over the false coin, along with Mallard’s emerald, to Thaddeus. But every time I did so, I lost out, as did every honest citizen who did right by the law. It was a grave situation – one I could ill afford, at present.
Ale-heavy heads were no excuse: work upon the Vegetius for the king’s commission had to resume in earnest come Friday morn. I believe I was least afflicted; Ralf the worst, mayhap forwhy he had commenced drinking at The Barge after dinner the afternoon previously. I had drunk but little then, afore the beast Hamo had disturbed us all and Joan Alder took to hiding ’neath the board. Later, until I acquired coin from my brother, Adam and I had been all but dry.
It was as well that my cousin and I were sufficiently alert, for I had the last few half-page miniatures to draw and Adam was to embark on scribing the most important Part Three of the book, filling in the text around the pictures already gilded and painted. Any errors he made now would cost us dear in materials and the labour that had gone before.
Kate had all the ingredients prepared to make the gesso when required. Ralf would then use it on the sections of the miniatures I had marked for gilding. In the meantime, the old journeyman nursed a sore head, perched upon his stool with naught else to do.
‘Master, me and Joanie were right sorry for what happened at The Barge, yesterday.’ Ralf was clearly thinking on a matter I preferred to forget. ‘That Hamo’s a real piece o’ work; no doubt about that.’
‘So what happened?’ Adam asked. ‘Do tell us, Ralf.’ My cousin was all ears. I had told him naught of my previous humiliation and had no intention that he should hear of it now. He would likely laugh so hard, his penmanship would suffer.
‘’Tis of no consequence,’ I said, eager to change the subject. ‘Rather, I would know more of this Hamo. Who is he, Ralf?’
‘Well, Hamo was – is yet – Joanie’s husband, as I b’lieve I told you already. But he treated her so badly, the Church Court agreed she could leave his house; no longer owed him marital rights, nor anything else a wife should. Though Hamo doesn’t see it that way, the Devil take him. He still reckons he can use Joanie whenever he fancies a bit o’ bedsport… saving your innocent ears, Mistress Kate. But things got worse back in the springtime. You see, Hamo, fo
r all his hateful ways, did have a decent job, working as a smith at the Royal Mint at the Tower of London.
‘I’ve no idea what came to pass – not sure Joanie does either, though she may know more than I do – but, any road, Hamo was dismissed, of a sudden, from the workings there. Don’t surprise me. ’Twas a wonder they kept him so long, what with his temper and rudeness and idle ways, not to mention the drinking. I s’pose he’s short of coin now. That was likely why he came after poor Joanie yesterday, insisting she owed him her earnings from the laundering, which she don’t. The court made that plain enough: that her earnings were her sole means of livelihood and naught to do with him any longer.’
My mind leapt far beyond the underdrawing of the great bombard I was designing, taking its likeness from our English exemplar of Vegetius. In truth, I knew no more of cannon than I did of the far off Land of Prester John but I could make a good copy.
‘He was employed as a smith at the Royal Mint, you say?’ I dipped my pen, casually, and drew the wheels upon the cannon carriage – each with a single curving stroke. ‘Thus, he would know well the making of coins.’ I did not add ‘whether false ones or true’ but that was my thought.
‘I dare say he would, master. Joanie may know more of it. Why?’
‘Do you know where Mistress Alder can be found, Ralf? I think I may visit her after dinner.’
‘She’ll most likely be in Crooked Lane, off Fish Street, but her laundry deliveries take her all along Gracechurch, Candlewick and East Cheap. She bides halfway along Crooked Lane, beyond St Michael’s, coming from this direction, opposite the well where she gets her washing water. You want me to show you, master?’
‘Nay. I thank you for your kindly offer, Ralf, but ’tis a lengthy walk. I shall find it.’
‘Not so far, master, that I haven’t been to see Joanie since I came here.’
‘Oh. Very well, then, if we can get the gesso applied and to set…’
Work proceeded at a reasonable pace in the workshop. Our one problem was storm flies sticking in the gesso afore it dried. Mayhap, they were the harbinger of bad weather to come later in the day. Even so, the last few underdrawings were completed and marked out for the application of gesso or pigments, as I deemed appropriate. It was a relief to have achieved these – the only part of the commission I did not yet feel happy about permitting others to do. With a little time yet to spare ere dinner, I gave thought to the cover of the book. The king’s commission required it gilded and bejewelled but now I could not afford to pay a goldsmith. It could not be that I would fail in this requirement. To have exquisite pages bound in a plain cover would not do. Then I recalled Jude’s gift to me. Might I use the mosaic pieces from the walls of a church in Ravenna to decorate the king’s book? This would not only save time in taking it to a goldsmith for bejewelling but spare me the cost.
I fetched the tiny glass jewels and tipped them out upon a sheet of clean paper where they winked and sparkled in the light. I arranged them, here and there, moving them about with a damp brush. I could produce any number of pleasing designs and there were sufficient pieces to adorn both front and back covers. But the front cover required something even more special at the centre to build the pattern around.
I wondered if I dare… Mayhap, I would. Had the Almighty not seen fit to put it in my hands? Was it for this very purpose? From my purse – where I had put it with the intention of taking it to Thaddeus – I took out the napkin-enwrapped emerald and set it in the midst of the mosaic. I moved a few glass pieces to accommodate the gemstone. Not only did it look well, in truth, it was perfect.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Adam.
He came to see my handiwork.
‘For the book’s covers?’
‘Aye. Do you think I dare make use of Mallard’s stone?’
‘Most certainly. Ralf, Kate, what say you to this? We can use rabbit glue to fix the mosaic squares. How best to fix the emerald, do you think, Seb? It wouldn’t do to have it fall off and be lost.’
All agreed the use of the gem was a righteous act and that it was ever meant to adorn this commission. It was more befitting a king’s or nobleman’s possession than a vintner’s. In the meantime, I must give thought to the method of its fixing. Adam was correct: it would be piteous to lose it during its journeying to Italy.
Joan Alder’s House in Crooked Lane
After a dinner of oysters in a green sauce, Ralf and I, with Gawain at heel, walked slowly to Crooked Lane, pausing now and then to allow the old man to catch his wind. There was no cause for haste, although behind us, upriver to the west, clouds were mounting higher. The storm flies told true, so it seemed, but overhead, the skies were yet a spread coverlet of blue. We likely had time enough.
The scawagers had cleared away the ash of last eve’s bonfires but the taint of wood smoke lingered, hanging in the heavy air. Blackened circles on street corners showed where the fires were lit and one or two roofs of thatch bore testament to strayed sparks with wet patches encompassing spots of charred straws. But it seemed the city had done well this year, avoiding blazes beyond control.
Ralf knocked upon the door in Crooked Lane and called out.
I noted the well-swept step and fresh limewashed plastered walls. This was a house of goodly keeping.
No one answered Ralf but, as we turned away, he deliberating upon where next to try, Mistress Alder appeared around the corner, carrying a large basket of someone else’s soiled linen.
I went to aid her but she shook her head.
‘I’ll lose my strength, if you aid me too often, young master. Let me fend for myself but I thank you for the thought. Did you want me?’
‘Indeed, good mistress. I have questions to ask of you, though I doubt you will approve the subject.’
‘Questions, eh? Well then, you’d best come indoors. You, too, Ralf. I dare say you came for the mead and naught else.’
‘I, well… since you’re offering, Joanie, I may as well partake…’ My journeyman looked a little sheepish, caught out in his wily intent.
Mistress Alder’s house was well-ordered and spotless, much as I expected from its outward appearance. Two small rooms looked out upon a yard where tubs of linen in soak stood on low trestles. One room was full of linen, hung over cords strung from wall to wall, some of it yet dripping. The laundress took us into the second room. Here she lived among further evidence of her toil and trade: baskets of neatly folded, snowy linen, awaiting return to her customers.
‘How do you know which linen belongs to which household?’ I asked mystified.
She laughed.
‘Is that what you came to ask me? Bless you, master: each line of washing, every basket has a coloured ribbon tied. You see? That blue ribbon there marks Mistress Tuffnell’s washing – all them babe’s tail-clouts and swaddling bands. The plaited ribbon is Master Carfax’s shirts and drawers. And Master Mallard’s stuff is in the basket with the dark green ribbon – as always. Mind, I’m not sure what’s to be done with it now. What with him in prison… who’ll pay for its lavering?’
Mistress Alder shrugged at her own query and bustled about, fetching clean cups and a flagon. She poured generous measures of liquid gold for each of us.
‘You could go to Mallard Court with it, as you normally do,’ I suggested. ‘The servants there will be in need of their clean clouts, whether the master be at home or no. Mayhap, Phelps will pay you your fee.’ I tasted the mead. It was cool and strong. I must sip in moderation.
‘Him? His purse-strings are knotted as tight as his master’s. But no matter. What did you come to ask me? It weren’t about washing, I know.’ She drank her cup down as if it were water and replenished it; Ralf’s also. Mine remained nigh full but she topped it up anyway.
‘Nay, indeed. I wished to learn more of Hamo.’
‘Because the fat rascal dunked you? I warn you, good master, go after him and
he’ll likely do the same again, if not worse. Stay away, I should.’
‘I have no intention of seeking him out, good mistress, not without assistance, leastwise. I wish to learn more of his past employment at the Royal Mint within the Tower. What do you know of that?’
‘Not so much.’ She chewed at her nether lip, thinking. ‘They dismissed him in April last. Eastertide it was. There was rumours of things going astray from the mint; dies, I believe it was. But whatever went on, they couldn’t prove it was Hamo’s doing, else they’d have arrested the ol’ wallidrag for thievery and they didn’t. Reckon they thought it was him though, else why would they tell him to go and never come back?’
‘Do you know about the work he did there? As a smith, was it not?’
‘Aye. He smelted the silver and made the blank coins, ready for the dies to put the king’s head on them. Why do you want to know?’
‘You may have found fake coins crossing your palm of late, mistress. Someone is forging them and…’
‘And you think it could be Hamo.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘I can well see that skabbit skarth up to no good, doing just that, though… well, he’s not so sharp-witted. I can’t think he’d be devious enough to plan something like that. But if you’re going to accuse him, take an army with you, young master. You know what he’s like.’