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 northeast 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 lull 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. Lowborn 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.