I removed all my clothes except for my shirt and lay down again, but not to sleep. Oblivious now to the noises around me, I turned on my back and stared up at the smoke-blackened beams overhead. A sudden suspicion had taken hold of me and I needed to think. Why had it come to me, a few moments earlier, that Master Arrowsmith’s baptismal name was Lionel? Someone had mentioned it within my hearing in recent weeks and I fixed my eyes on a knot of wood in one of the rafters, forcing myself to concentrate. Then all at once I had it. Millisent Shepherd! She had been speaking of… of… Lady Wardroper’s cousin! That was it! Lady Wardroper, she had told me, had enlisted Lionel Arrowsmith’s help in obtaining a place for her son, Matthew, in the Duke of Gloucester’s household.
So I was right! What I had thought of as my own independent wanderings had really been part of a plan. God’s plan! I had been led from Mistress Gentle in Southampton to Millisent Shepherd to Lady Wardroper and, finally, to the Saracen’s Head. God was using me yet again for His purposes and my resentment rose and flooded over. ‘No, Lord,’ I told Him firmly, ‘not this time. I’ve only just brought two villains to book for You down in Devon. I refuse to be pushed into a second adventure in less than three months. I came to London for my pleasure, not for Yours. Let me alone! Leave me be!’
I suppose I might have known that my arrogant demands would go unheeded. After all, I should, had I deferred to my dead mother’s wishes, even then have been giving glory to God and doing His work as a Benedictine Brother at Glastonbury. Instead, I was free, roaming the countryside, selling my chapman’s wares, pleasing myself. But I succumbed to the conviction that I could set up my puny will against His and that, somehow or other, He would acknowledge what I saw to be the justice of my arguments and cease to trouble me. And so, with a sigh of relief, I turned on my side, snuggled into my straw, ignoring the fleas, and was sound asleep within a couple of minutes.
It had been my intention to spend two nights at the Saracen’s Head; but when, the next morning, the pieman offered to buy my space from me for twice the amount I had paid the landlord’s wife I willingly agreed. I had taken an unreasoning dislike to the tavern and wished to shake its dust from my feet. Indeed, I had made up my mind to quit London altogether and was only too happy to sell my few feet of kitchen floor in order that the pieman’s nephew, who was joining his uncle that day from Norfolk, had somewhere to lay his head until such time as the royal princes, noble lords and all their retinues departed for France, thus relieving the capital of their encroaching presence.
‘But where will you sleep tonight?’ the pieman asked me.
‘Somewhere in the open countryside,’ I answered thankfully. In response to his inquisitive stare I continued, ‘I’ve decided to go home to Bristol. I’ll return to London in a month or two, when it’s less crowded.’ And to myself I added, ‘And when it’s too late for whatever purpose God has in mind for me.’
‘Maybe you’re wise,’ the pieman conceded. ‘I’d probably go home today myself, if it weren’t for young Thomas coming to join me.’
I wished him goodbye and good luck, sought out the landlord’s wife to acquaint her with the new arrangement, treated myself to a substantial breakfast in the Saracen’s Head ale-room and then set off to make my way back across London to the New Gate, and so out on to the Holborn road.
Although early, an army of rakers was busy carting away the refuse of the previous day, conveying it to specially prepared pits outside the city walls or to the wharves, where boats were waiting to ferry it out to sea. But it was a losing battle. People were already throwing the night’s excrement out of bedroom windows and sweeping yesterday’s rushes out of doors, along with stinking straw from the many stables. Butchers tipped pails of fresh entrails and animal heads into the central drain, where they were soon joined by stale fish, builders’ rubble and feathers from the poulterers. Traffic, too, clogged the streets. Carts piled high with bread from Stratford-atte-Bowe, with bricks from the outlying villages around the White Chapel and Lime House, with barrels of fresh water from the springs at Paddington, were rumbling through every one of the city gates, soon to be followed by others from further afield. Street vendors and shopkeepers were laying out their stalls for the start of another day’s vigorous trading; a gaggle of boys, laughing and shouting to one another in the last moments of freedom, made for the grammar school at the church of Saint Peter-upon-Cornhill; and sumpter horses, laden with goods, fouled the streets with their droppings. A couple of knaves were being set in the stocks and pillory, while the night’s drunks and bawds and general disturbers of the King’s peace were rattling the bars of their iron cage, shouting to be let out. Barely past the hour of Prime London was none the less fully awake and busy.
It was another pleasant early summer’s day, with sunlight slanting into courtyard and alley, and a light breeze which sent the shadows racing ahead of it in patterns of grey and gold. Perhaps, after all, with so many people crowding the streets, and so anxious to spend their money, I would wait until afternoon before turning my steps in the direction of New Gate and the long road home. A chance to make money was not to be lightly dismissed. Besides, why should I allow God to spoil my plans? Why should I not remain in London for at least another morning?
In this new mood of bravado and defiance I retraced my steps to the Leadenhall, where strangers to the city could rent stalls for the first three days of the week in order to sell their wares. I set out my goods on the trestle table allotted me by the Warden and was soon besieged with buyers. By the time that the bells of Saint Michael and Saint Peter-upon-Cornhill sounded the hour of Tierce-Sext, I had sold most of the contents of my pack and was thinking hungrily of my dinner. I was just about to go in search of sustenance when my eye was caught by a man in the crowd around the stall next to mine: a small man with heavily pock-marked skin whose face was somehow familiar. I stood for a moment or two, cudgelling my brains as to why this should be, then suddenly my memory was jogged. We had met four years ago on my very first visit to London.
‘Philip Lamprey!’ I shouted.
I hardly expected him to hear me over the babel of voices which filled the enclosure, but at the sound of his name his head jerked round and his eyes darted hither and thither until they finally came to rest on me. Almost at once a broad grin split his features and he came towards me with the slightly military gait which was a legacy from his soldiering days.
‘Roger the chapman!’ he exclaimed delightedly. ‘Well I never! Fancy seein’ you again.’
‘I’m surprised you recall me so readily,’ I said, for our acquaintance had been brief.
‘Cor! Anyone’d remember a gert fellow like you. And anyway, you remembered me.’
‘Not immediately,’ I admitted.
‘Ah well,’ he answered, still grinning, ‘I reck’n I’ve changed a bit since you last clapped eyes on me.’
He was right. His meagre frame had fleshed out and was clothed in decent homespun instead of a beggar’s rags. There was an air of prosperity about him which he had previously lacked.
‘Yes,’ I replied slowly. ‘Yes, you have.’
‘I’m a respectable shopkeeper now,’ he confided. ‘Managed to save enough from me begging to rent one o’ them second-hand clothes shops west of the Tun. Tha’s what I’m doin’ ’ere. Lookin’ fer any goods goin’ cheap among you furriners.’ The corners of his eyes creased mockingly. ‘Married again, too. Told you, I think, that me first wife ran off up north with a butcher. Got the marriage annulled by Holy Church. Found a good woman and settled down. Bad times over at last. Which reminds me, I owe you a dinner. Promised you that four year since, when you was charitable enough to treat me at the Bull in Fish Street.’