Death and the Chapman Read online

  I had spent the night in Southwark, at the home of one of my new acquaintances. And it was thanks to him that I had acquired my first knowledge of the capital. Stretched beside him on the floor of his master’s bakery, saved from the cold of the night by the warmth of the ovens, I had nevertheless found it difficult to sleep on account of the noise from the house next door. In the chill of the small hours, when my friend rose to rekindle the fires for the early baking, he discovered me wakeful. When I explained my problem, he laughed.

  ‘I should have warned you,’ he said, ‘that the house next to this is a brothel. There are dozens of them in Southwark, all belonging to the Bishop of Winchester, so the local whores are known as Winchester geese.’ He also told me that I could recognize a prostitute by the striped hood she wore.

  I was naive enough in those days to be shocked by this information. Innocent that I was, I had believed until then that all churchmen, fallible human beings though they were, at least abided by the rule of chastity and assisted laymen to do the same, even if they were often unsuccessful. To find out that the See of Winchester actually owned houses of ill repute gave me a jolt from which I did not soon recover.

  But now, as I approached the already lowered drawbridge, my stomach full of a shared breakfast of porridge and small beer, my pack comfortably settled on my back, my cudgel swinging in my hand, I had no thoughts for anything but my first real sight of London. At the southern end of the bridge were three stone towers with portcullises, the outer two topped by a row of traitors’ heads on spikes, each sightless, grinning mask in a different stage of decomposition.

  I had no difficulty passing through the gate, but the Warden had little time to answer my request for directions. ‘Cross the bridge and ask again,’ he grunted, and indeed I could see that he was busy. I had never encountered such traffic as there is in London, nor so many people. I had been told by one of the pilgrims that it was home to some forty or fifty thousand inhabitants, but my mind refused to encompass so vast a number. Now, jostled on every side by carts and waggons and foot travellers like myself, I was overwhelmed by the noise and general air of confusion. The surface of the bridge, between the two rows of overhanging shops and houses, was badly pitted, and on at least three occasions I stumbled, twisting an ankle. But each time a neighbourly hand caught my elbow and prevented me from falling. I decided that London might be overcrowded and rowdy, but the people were friendly. Long before I had reached the end of the nineteen-arch span, I was feeling more cheerful and less intimidated.

  I had been advised by my host of the night to make for one of the quays east of London Bridge, where ships coming up river from the mouth of the Thames docked at the wharfside and sold goods direct to customers on shore. And after my success in Canterbury my pack was in need of replenishing. Once clear of the bridge itself, I had a better view of the river, already bustling, even at that early hour of the morning, with boats and barges of all shapes and sizes. There were swans, too, gliding gracefully through the waterborne traffic, apparently unperturbed by the movement. I could see groups of men around the piers of the bridge, fishing for the smelts and salmon, pike and tench and barbel, with which the river abounded. (I learned later that they were known as Petermen, because they used nets, like St Peter.)

  At Marlowe’s Quay, an eel ship had just docked, and the housewives were already gathering with their money and baskets. A big man with a broken nose and huddled in a good wool cloak against the rawness of the morning was just going aboard, while the women stamped their feet and blew on fingers blue with cold.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I asked my neighbour.

  She gave me a pitying look, sensing at once that I was not a Londoner.

  ‘That’s the water-bailiff, of course. He goes through the catch and throws overboard any undersized or red eels he might discover. After that, it’s his job to supervise the weighers, to make sure we get good measure.’ She eyed me curiously. ‘You waiting to buy?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m a chapman. I need laces and threads and silks for you women to fritter your money away on.’

  My companion snorted. ‘Small chance of that, with prices rising the way they are. Mind you, things’ll get better now that Edward’s on the throne again, God bless him!’

  I discovered that the Londoners regarded Edward of Rouen as peculiarly their own king. Big, strong and handsome, he spent freely among them, increasing the trade and prosperity of the city. And last spring he had done the impossible, by reaching his capital from the North without the loss of a single man.

  I moved on, threading my way in and out of riverside alleyways and narrow lanes whose names were as yet unknown to me. The woman had told me that I needed Galley Quay, nearest the Tower, and sure enough, when I finally got there, I found a Venetian galley unloading bales of silk and velvet, barrels of spices and sweetmeats, iron-bound chests of brooches and rings. Many of the goods were too costly for hawking in the streets, but I bought a remnant of damask, enough to make a dress, and a few cheaper items of jewellery. There were also some phials of perfume and scented oil, which I added to the other wares still in my pack. It was while I was paying for my purchases that I noticed the pungent smell of rotting flesh, borne upriver from beyond the walls, and learned that it came from the decaying corpses of executed pirates, whose bodies were left until three tides had washed over them, between Wapping and St Katherine’s Wharf.

  I wandered back the way I had come, still dazed by everything I saw; the great cranes along the wharfsides, busily unloading spices and oranges from Genoa or cargoes of Normandy apples and fine Caen stone. The roads were jammed with traffic, carts, drays and carriages forcing a passage between wandering pedestrians; chapmen, such as myself, itinerant friars, piemen, sailors, messenger boys. The noise was deafening; people cursing and shouting; cries of ‘Beefribs! Steaming hot!’ ‘Clean rushes!’ ‘Good sheep’s brains!’ ‘Apples and pears! Every one ripe!’ Agitators haranguing the crowds; boatmen, the roughest and toughest of all the Londoners, brawling with one another over prospective clients; the continuous jangling of the bells.

  By mid-morning, my head was aching and my eyes bolting from my head. The early frost had melted, leaving the roadway wet and slippery beneath the overhanging eaves. My pack was weighing heavily on my back as I dodged the offal and garbage of the streets. My initial excitement had begun to wane, and remembering suddenly that it was St Faith’s Day, I decided to go to Mass. I had already passed so many churches that choosing one was not a problem, but I wanted particularly to see St Paul’s. Even country bumpkins like myself knew its name and reputation. A friendly shopkeeper directed me towards the Lud Gate and at the top of the hill I found it, its huge steeple thrusting into the air, crowned by a golden weathercock.

  I don’t know what I had expected. A holy calm, a sanctified hush, perhaps. I was certainly unprepared for what I actually discovered. By the great cross, in the north-east corner of the churchyard, instead of a priest giving godly exhortations, a man in a stained leather tunic and scuffed felt boots was holding forth, well away on some political hobby-horse of his own. The cloisters were full of people walking up and down, and it did not take me long to figure out that the bulk of them were lawyers, either touting for business or discussing cases with their clients. Inside, in the nave itself, there were more of them, together with stalls selling food and drink to the pilgrims, who, like me, had come to St Paul’s to see its many holy relics: an arm of St Mellitus, a crystal phial of the Virgin’s milk, a strand of St Mary Magdalene’s hair, and the knife Jesus used for carving when he was a boy. There were others, but I did not wait to see them. The noise and confusion here was as bad as in the streets, and I pushed my way outside again.

  As I emerged from the churchyard, I saw that people were being forced to one side by a mounted sergeant-at-arms, who was clearing a pathway for a procession of horsemen just entering through the Lud Gate. The sergeant was wearing the insignia of the White Boar, and I realized then that the young man at
the head of the group of riders must be Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the King’s younger brother.

  ‘You and the lord Richard were born on the very same day,’ my mother used to say to me when I was small; although how she came by so exact a piece of information she would never divulge. However, I accepted that we were of an age, although that was all we had in common. In every other respect, our lives had been widely divergent. Richard of Gloucester had been Admiral of England, Ireland and Aquitaine, had levied and commanded troops for his brother throughout the entire South-West, and been the King’s trusted lieutenant all by the age of eleven. In the eight years since, he had grown spiritually and politically in stature, remaining, unlike George of Clarence, totally loyal to his elder brother throughout all the vicissitudes of Edward’s troubled reign. Today, he was not only Admiral but also Constable of England, Warden of the West Marches towards Scotland, Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent, and Great Chamberlain of the realm. He had only recently returned from the North, where he had successfully subdued the last flicker of rebellion against Edward’s resumption of the crown. I was a failed monk and a humble chapman. What greater contrast could there have been?

  Because of my height, I had a good view of the little procession over the heads of the other onlookers. The Duke was not at all what I had imagined him to be. I don’t really know what I had expected; someone big and blond perhaps, like his brothers, who had once or twice been described to me; certainly not this slight, almost boyish figure, the serious face partially concealed by a curtain of dark, swinging hair. The hysterical adulation of the crowd, cheering wildly and throwing their greasy hats in the air, was sufficient to turn the head of a much older person, but this slim young man of just nineteen showed no signs of any self-congratulation. Rather, he seemed uncomfortable and ill-at-ease, anxious to be free of the clamour. Surly, I thought; then was immediately forced to revise my opinion as the saturnine face lifted into a smile of recognition for someone near at hand. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and although the expression was fleeting, its beauty had revealed a different man. As the cavalcade moved on and the crowd dispersed, I made a guess that the Duke of Gloucester was not happy in London.

  I realized that my earlier fatigue had deepened. I was not only hungry, but feeling dirty and badly in need of a wash. I made inquiries from a messenger boy, resplendent in the gold and green uniform of his master’s livery, who directed me to one of the city’s public wash-houses, where, for the payment of a groat, I could immerse myself in a tub of steaming water. I was fortunate, on reaching my destination, to find that it was one of the hours reserved for men. Mixed bathing was naturally not allowed, although I learned that this was not the case everywhere in Europe. A small, heavily pock-marked man in the tub next to mine, who was vigorously scrubbing his back with a long-handled brush, asked in a throaty whisper: ‘You ever been to Bruges?’

  I shook my head, trying to work up a lather with the coarse grey soap. ‘I’ve never been outside this country.’

  ‘I’ve been,’ the man informed me in the same quiet, rasping voice. ‘I was a soldier, I was, until I was wounded in a street fight. In the stomach, it was. I weren’t no good fer anythink after. But I was in the Low Countries fer a while afore that.’ The hooded eyes sparkled reminiscently. ‘If you’re ever in Bruges, cocky, go to the Waterhalle. Cor, what! I’ll tell you! Men and women can bathe together there. Naked as the day they were born! Just s’long as the woman wears a mask and don’t tell you ’er name. And all with the blessing of the Duke of Burgundy, ’imself, God love ’im! I tell you, in this country we don’t know ’ow to live.’

  I laughed, but had no ready answer. London was as much as I could cope with at the moment, and tales of foreign countries beyond the English Channel only confused me further. When we were dry and dressed again, I invited my new friend to have dinner with me, judging by his clothes, which were even shabbier than mine, that a free meal would not come amiss. He accepted with alacrity and steered me in the direction of Fish Street, which ran north from London Bridge and where there were a couple of fine inns, the Bull and the King’s Head. My companion, whose name I had discovered to be Philip Lamprey – a nickname, on account of his partiality for that particular fish – chose the former.

  ‘Not so many of the gentry come in ’ere as go to the King’s Head.’ He added lugubriously: ‘I’m not easy with the gentry. You can’t trust the buggers.’

  But there were still a number of men in the Bull whose mode of dress and richness of apparel proclaimed them well-to-do merchants or burgesses at the very least. Low-born creatures like us were directed to a smaller room where there was straw – and none too clean, at that – on the floor instead of rushes, and where the soup was served in wooden bowls rather than tin or pewter. And the pot-boy who brought our food and ale treated us with an ill-concealed contempt. His offhand manner told us plainly that he would rather be serving the gentry.

  While we ate, I heard more of Philip Lamprey’s past. His wife had run away with a butcher and gone up north while he was soldiering abroad, taking their two sons with her. The rest of his family, parents and four sisters, were all dead, and his one remaining kinsman, a cousin, had died in the recent outbreak of plague. He made a living as best he could by begging, an occupation which some days rewarded him handsomely, but on others left him almost destitute. He was going through a bad patch at the moment, he told me: people were less charitable than they used to be, possibly because prices had rocketed during the late troubled times. But now that King Henry and his son were dead, Margaret of Anjou in custody, and good King Edward, the Londoners’ friend safely back on his throne again, things were bound to improve.

  ‘And when that ’appens,’ he said, wiping the soup from his mouth with his sleeve, ‘I’ll buy you a dinner. ’Ow long are you going t’ be in London? An’ where are you stayin’?’

  ‘I was hoping to find hospitality at the Baptist’s Head in Crooked Lane,’ I answered. ‘I was told to go there by a man I met in Bristol, who’s a friend of the landlord.’

  ‘Oh, I know it all right.’ Philip Lamprey drank the rest of his ale. ‘Off Thames Street. Crooked Lane, that is. The Baptist’s Head… Now, let me see…’ He stared musingly into the depths of his empty cup and, taking the hint, I yelled for the pot-boy to bring us more ale. ‘That’s the place on the left-hand side as you goes towards the river. Very close to the water, it is. If I remember aright, one lot o’ windows looks out over the Thames.’ He scratched his sparse greying hair. Flakes of dead skin fell and settled on the shoulders of his threadbare jacket. He picked some shreds of meat from between the stumps of his teeth. ‘Not a big place. Not so big as the inn higher up the street, on the corner, but it’s got a name fer selling very good wines. Not fer the likes of me and you, o’ course. Only fer those as can afford ’em.’

  The pot-boy reappeared and grudgingly refilled our wooden cups from the big stone jug that he was carrying.

  ‘This other inn you mentioned,’ I said, after I had taken several gulps of my ale. ‘Would that be called the Crossed Hands?’

  My companion nodded, wheezing and gasping, having swallowed too much far too fast. ‘Tha’s it.’ He knuckled watering eyes and blew his nose in his fingers. ‘Much grander place ’n the other. Shouldn’t advise you to go lookin’ fer a billet there.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so,’ I told him drily, but my grim smile was of course wasted on Philip.

  ‘Tha’s all right then. They’d only turn you away if you did. The landlord don’t encourage our sort, by what I hear.’

  ‘What else do you hear?’ I asked; then, seeing his look of puzzlement, added impatiently: ‘About the Crossed Hands inn.’

  Philip Lamprey shrugged. ‘Not much. Nothink bad, at any rate. Landlord’s called Martin Trollope, but I don’t know nothink to ’is deprimunt.’ He hesitated. ‘We-ell… I did over’ear someone say once as ’ow ’e was a greedy bastard. Willin’ to do anythink fer mone
y. But then, oo wouldn’t?’

  My heart beat faster. This wasn’t evidence, but at least it added fuel to my speculations that there was something suspicious about the Crossed Hands inn. I asked: ‘Is Crooked Lane far from here?’

  Philip gave his throaty chuckle. ‘Lor’ luv you, no! I’ll take you there, if you like, when we’ve finished drinkin’.’

  I accepted his offer gratefully, but when we finally reached Thames Street I recognized it as one of the roads I had walked along that morning. It stretched from the Tower, through the fish markets of Billingsgate to the Bridge, and was one of the busiest streets in London, so blocked all day long with carts and drays that even the nobles and their retinues, leaving the royal apartments in the White Tower, were compelled to wait, fuming and bad-tempered, until the road was clear. The cursing and swearing which constantly assaulted the ears had to be heard to be believed.

  Crooked Lane itself was off that part of Thames Street known, so Philip told me, as Petty Wales; a narrow alleyway into which little sunlight filtered because of the overhanging upper storeys of the houses on either side. And there, on the right-hand corner, its sign of two crossed mailed fists, creaking slightly in the breeze – not, I was relieved to note, as I had imagined it in my dream – stood the Crossed Hands inn.

  Chapter Ten

  The sign creaked slightly, as though its hinges were rusty, and close beside it I noticed the iron bracket which at night would hold a torch, lighting up the name of the inn; the light which had also illuminated the face of Clement Weaver on the last occasion his sister had seen him.

  The lower half of the building was made of stone, but the upper half had a timber frame, with walls of wooden lattice work and plaster. The downstairs windows, which looked out on to Thames Street, had old-fashioned shutters, but some of those above were of horn, or covered with sheets of oiled parchment. The entrance was through an archway in Crooked Lane, and the inn was built around a central courtyard. Looking through, I could see all the midday bustle of arrivals and departures, of pot-boys and serving-maids hurrying to and from the kitchens with the dirty plates and knives used at dinner. A horse, a big grey gelding, tethered to the bar beside the mounting-block, champed impatiently at the bit, awaiting his owner.