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‘What’s happening?’ I asked the watchman.

It was not the best moment I could have chosen. The man was in the middle of an acrimonious discussion with a big, raw-boned farmer concerning the amount of toll the latter had to pay on the sheep he was driving in to market. He paused just long enough to vent his spleen on me.

‘Soldiers!’ he spat. ‘That’s what’s bloody ‘appening. Eating our victuals, drinking our wine and leaving us to pay the bleedin’ bill! ‘ And he turned back to the farmer, who had had time to get his second wind and was more convinced than ever that he was being overcharged.

I left them to it and stepped out into Redcliffe Street on the opposite side of the gate. By the time I reached the High Cross in the centre of the town, progress was growing extremely difficult. The frequent paradings of foot-soldiers and the forays from the castle of mounted men-at-arms forced all other traffic almost to a standstill. And then, while I hesitated, wondering whether to start knocking on doors immediately or to find myself a meal at one of the inns — my big frame needed constant sustenance, another fact which had marked me out as unsuitable for monastic life — I suddenly found myself shoved unceremoniously to one side as a party of horsemen cleared a passage for two women riding in their midst. Along with the rest of the enforced spectators, I stared at them curiously. The older of the two looked neither to right nor left, imperiously oblivious of the tide of common life which surged around her. The thin, bitter face, seamed with wrinkles, showed the marks of suffering, and when a voice behind me muttered: ‘That’s Queen Margaret,’ I realized with a shock that this must be Margaret of Anjou, the wife of King Henry the Sixth. But what was she doing here, in Bristol?

My gaze switched to her companion, a slender slip of a girl, who looked too fragile to control the big brown bay on which she was mounted. She wore unrelieved black and was obviously in mourning. A sudden breeze, whipping up High Street from the Backs, momentarily lifted the veil from her face to reveal a glimpse of deathly pallor and jutting bones, in which the eyes were just two dark smudges. Almost at once, she raised a gloved hand and shrouded herself again in the clinging draperies. Then she was gone, along with the rest of the little cavalcade, clattering down Corn Street towards the bridge at the far end, which spanned the River Frome. We all stared after the dwindling figures for a moment, then stirred, grumbling about the delay before continuing with our business. Returning to the debate which had been my chief preoccupation before the interruption, I decided that the rumblings of my stomach merited my undivided attention, and asked the woman standing next to me for directions to any inn where they served a reasonable meal and did not give short measure on the ale.

She was a plump, homely body, not, I decided, quite as old as the network of fine wrinkles around the eyes at first indicated. The eyes themselves were dark brown, slightly opaque, conveying an impression of secrecy. But when she smiled, as she did after having carefully surveyed me from head to toe, they twinkled, giving her face an altogether pleasanter expression than it had worn hitherto. Her plain dress of homespun and home-dyed black broadcloth, and a complete absence of jewellery, indicated her lowly status and broke none of the sumptuary laws which Parliament so regularly pass and which we English as regularly ignore. The wisps of hair protruding from beneath her green woollen hood showed flecks of grey among the faded brown.

‘Looking for somewhere to eat, are you?’ she asked, sucking her lower lip and giving me the impression that she was playing for time while other thoughts took precedence in her mind. ‘Well, let me see… There’s Abyngdon’s, behind All Saints’ Church, just down the road a bit, off Corn Street. Used to be called the Green Lattis, but that’s neither here nor there. Then there’s the Full Moon, but that’s usually crowded by midday with visitors to St James’s Priory. There’s the White Hart at the end of Broad Street. Or the Running Man… On second thoughts, I wouldn’t recommend that one. It was all right when Thomas Prynne was landlord — great friend he was, and still is, of my master — but he went to try his luck in London. Owns the Baptist’s Head in Crooked Lane, off Thames Street…’ Her voice tailed away and she stared into the distance, as though contemplating something there that she would rather not see. It was with a considerable effort that she pulled herself together and once more gave me her attention. ‘A pedlar, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where have you come from? I’d say you’re local, by the sound of you.’

‘I was born in Wells.’ I saw no need, at that point, to enlarge any further. ‘Thank you for your directions. I’ll try Abyingdon’s as it’s nearest.’

‘Hold on.’ The woman laid a plump hand on my arm and I recall thinking that her grip was surprisingly tenacious. ‘It must be nearly midday. You’re late for dinner. Ours was over nearly an hour ago. But if you like to accompany me while I run my errand, you can come home with me afterwards and I’ll make sure you’re fed. We keep a good table in Broad Street. Nothing’s too good for an Alderman of Bristol.’

I hesitated, suddenly unsure of my ground. She spoke with sufficient authority to make me wonder if perhaps I had been mistaken in assuming her lowly status.

‘The Alderman is your husband?’ I ventured.

She gave a deep-throated chuckle. ‘Get away with you! Do I look like the wife of an Alderman? No, of course not! He’s my master. I keep house for him and his wife and… and his children.’ There was a slight hesitation, as though she were about to amend what she had said; then, evidently thinking better of it, she took my arm again, this time tucking one plump hand into the crook of my elbow. ‘If you’ll give me your support as far as Marsh Street, we’ll get on all the faster. I’m not as young as I was.’

We set off along Corn Street, dodging the piles of filth in front of the houses and the mounds of offal outside a butcher’s shop. There were plenty of pigs and goats, too, to impede our progress; they had no business, legally, to be kept within city limits; but the good citizens of Bristol ignored this regulation in the same way that people of other towns up and down the country ignored it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s that the English see every law as a challenge, either to be circumvented or broken. I think the thing I remember most about that walk is the clamour of the bells. We’d heard them at Glastonbury, of course, sounding for the different offices of the day, but this was my first time in a city, and I’d never heard so many ringing all together; tolling the hours of the day, summoning citizens to meetings, warning of the opening of the municipal courts or simply calling the faithful to prayer at one of Bristol’s many churches.

Marsh Street itself was full of sailors who had either just come ashore, intent on finding the nearest brothel, or were about to embark on one of the many ships at present riding at anchor along the Backs, laden with wine or soap or some other cargo destined for foreign shores. In front of one of the warehouses which lined the busy wharves was a carrier, loading his cart with bales of cloth which I learned later was woven by the weavers who lived and worked in the suburb of Redcliffe, on the opposite side of the Avon.

The carrier raised his head and, when he saw us approaching, lifted his hand in greeting.

‘You’re late, Marjorie,’ he said accusingly. ‘I’m almost ready to leave. What are my orders this time?’

‘The same as usual. When you get to London, you’re to go straight to the Steelyard. Deliver to the Hanse merchants and to nobody else.’ She turned to me, adding by way of explanation: ‘ The Easterlings pay cash, which the Alderman insists on. Londoners want credit, he says, and then try to settle bad debts with all kinds of nonsense, such as tennis balls or packs of cards or bales of tassels.’ She chuckled again, drily. ‘They may get away with that in other parts of the country, but not in their dealings with Bristol.‘ She put her hand into the pocket of her skirt and produced a piece of paper sealed with red wax, which she handed to the carrier. ‘And if you’d deliver this for me, I’d be obliged.’ A coin passed between them.