Part Three: October 1471, London
Chapter 9
Old age is not simply a matter of rheumatic joints, defective eyesight and impaired hearing; it’s waking up one morning and realizing that there is no longer any future. That is a lesson I have learned these past few years, and something which young people find very hard to grasp. They have life, love and adventure spread before them, without any hint of their own mortality.
I was exactly the same myself, on that early October day in the year of Our Lord 1471 when I crossed London Bridge and entered the city proper for the very first time. It was, as I recall, a morning of frost and needle-sharp sunlight, all white and gold. Everywhere there was brilliance and light, from the sparkle of rimed branches and rooftops to the glitter of the rutted road and the sun-spangled glint of horses’ harness. I was young, strong and ready to take on the world. The thought of any personal danger in the quest which lay in front of me never so much as entered my mind.
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 ’Beef ribs! 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.