The Frost Fair

    'Half of the city must be here,' she observed.

    'Can you think of a better place to be?'

    She pointed a finger. 'What's that they are roasting?'

    'An ox, I think,' he said, staring across at the spit, 'and I fancy we'll see a pig or two being turned over a brazier as well. Warm meat sells well on cold days.'

    'Will the fire not melt the ice?'

    'It appears not.'

    'Another miracle.'

    'You'll have much to tell them in Northamptonshire.'

    'I plan to linger here for a while first,' she said, turning to him with a smile.

    He met her gaze. 'Call on me for anything you should require.'

    They walked on into the heart of the fair. Lines of booths had been set up to form an avenue that was known as Temple Street since it ran from the bottom of Temple stairs. Every conceivable item of merchandise was on sale and there was loud haggling over each purchase. Large crowds and horse-drawn coaches went up and down the street with complete confidence. In some of the tents, freaks of nature were on display. Lurid banners advertised a cow with five legs, a sheep with two heads and a dog that could sing like a bird. Feats of strength were displayed by a giant of a blacksmith, bare-armed to show off his rippling muscles and seemingly impervious to the cold. Two dwarves in yellow costumes had a mock fight to entertain the children. Puppet plays and interludes were also drawing their audiences. Horse races were being held at regular intervals and sizeable bets were being made. Those who preferred more brutish pleasures flocked to the bull ring that had been erected below the Tower to cheer on the vicious hounds that baited the animals.

    Watching it through startled eyes, Susan took it all in, anxious to miss nothing of the phenomenon. She paused beside a booth that housed a printing press.

    'Look at that,' she said. 'Someone is actually printing upon the ice.'

    'It's a wise tradesman who knows how to create a demand.'

    'For what?'

    'Do you not see what he is about?' asked Christopher, as the printer handed a piece of paper to a grinning customer. 'He prints but one line to certify that the bearer attended the frost fair and he charges sixpence for the privilege. Here's a shrewd businessman. I dare swear that he'll make five pounds a day at the enterprise.' He put a hand to his pocket. 'I'd be happy to buy a certificate for you.'

    'A kind offer,' she said gratefully, 'but one I decline.'

    'If anyone refuses to believe that you came here, turn to me for an affidavit.'

    'Thank you.'

    She gave him another warm smile and they moved on. They passed a woman selling pies and another with a basket of trinkets and dolls under her arm. Strong drink was in good supply and sounds of revelry came from a large tent. Even in the wintry conditions, prostitutes found ways to ply their trade. Hearing the rustle of taffeta to his left, Christopher took care to block Susan's line of vision so that she did not see the woman was smiling provocatively through a gap in a booth at the men who passed by. An old man selling brooms competed aloud with other pedlars who were trumpeting the merits of their wares. A scarecrow of a ballad singer then claimed their attention, singing of the frost fair and thrusting his copies of his ballad at anyone who came within reach. The man's daughter, a tiny creature swathed in rags, followed him with a wooden bowl in which she kept the day's takings.

    Christopher guided his friend between two booths and out into a wide expanse of ice. Sleds were darting to and fro. Skaters were everywhere, some with more sense of balance than others. Deprived of their livelihood, the notoriously foul-mouthed watermen who usually rowed people from one bank to the other, had just cause to turn the air blue with their oaths. Some of them, out of desperation, had harnessed their craft to horses so that the Thames could still yield some income for them. Christopher was glad that Susan never got close enough to any of them to hear their bad language. They came to a halt to survey the scene. It was, in the main, one of joy and merriment. London was defying the elements with a show of celebration. Christopher noticed something else.

    'Civitas in civitate,' he remarked. 'Here is truly a city within a city, and one without the constraints we find on shore. Do you not feel the difference?' he went on. 'We are all one on the ice. Degree vanishes and an earl has no more status than an eel-catcher. The King himself was here yesterday to rub shoulders with his subjects and to carve his name in the ice as readily as any child. The frost fair abolishes rank and makes us all the same age. That is the real miracle.'

    'I believe it is,' she agreed.

    "Thank you for letting me bring you here.'

    'I would not have missed it for the world.'

    'It pleases me so much to have you here in London.'

    'The pleasure is mutual, I assure you.'

    Their eyes locked for a moment and Christopher suddenly realized just how fond he had become of Susan Cheever. While they had met as a result of the commission to design a house, it was the murder of her brother, Gabriel, which really drew them together. A bond had developed between them and Christopher was now aware just how strong that bond was. He felt an upsurge of affection for her. He was on the point of putting it into words when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approaching them. Christopher turned to see two familiar faces. They belonged to Jonathan Bale and his wife, Sarah, who were strolling arm in arm across the ice. Delighted to meet his friends again, Christopher nevertheless wished that they had delayed their arrival by a few minutes. They had interrupted a special moment.

    After a flurry of greetings, Jonathan smiled politely at Susan.

    'I'll wager you've seen nothing like this in Northamptonshire,' he said.

    'No, Mr Bale,' she replied. 'It's a source of great wonder to me.'

    'And to us,' admitted Sarah. 'We've had bad frosts before and blocks of ice in the river but I can't remember it freezing over completely like this. It's such an adventure for the boys. We simply had to bring them.'

    'Where are they?' asked Christopher.

    'Skating over there,' she said, waving an arm in the direction of the bridge.

    'Trying to skate,' corrected Jonathan with paternal fondness. 'Richard has taken well to the sport but Oliver is too clumsy on his feet as yet. There they are,' he added, jabbing a finger. 'Close by that boy on the sled. Do you see them?'

    Christopher picked them out at once. Oliver Bale was moving gingerly across the ice while his younger brother, Richard, was skating with a degree of skill on the skates that their father had fashioned out of wooden blocks and straps of leather. Like so many other children on the river, they were enjoying themselves hugely. The parents watched their sons with indulgent smiles. Christopher liked the whole family but he had a particular fondness for Jonathan Bale.

    In character and in background, the two men had little in common. Jonathan was a big, sturdy, diligent constable whose Puritan sympathies made him a stern critic of what he saw as the excesses of the restored monarchy. Dour by inclination, he had the kind of misshapen face, disfigured by two large warts and a livid scar, that even his doting wife could never describe as handsome. For her part, Sarah was a stout, bustling, warm-hearted, gregarious woman who had kept her good looks, if not her figure, well into her thirties. Since Jonathan had played a crucial part in pursuit of the men who had killed her brother, Susan, too, had a great respect for the constable.