I didn’t enlighten her and we finished our meal in silence. Indeed, I had a job to stay awake, especially after another two beakers of ale. Consequently the sun was rising in the sky when I finally climbed out of the hollow to the ridge above and set out on the long walk back to London. The horses had been taken, of course, by Piers — Pernelle — and the woman Margaret, and Albia had confirmed that the carthorse was the only beast of burden that her father owned. My hope must lie in some friendly carrier giving me a ride.
I awoke with a start to instant awareness and the horrified realization that the light was fading. I knew at once what had happened.
I had found the path leading to the main track with none of the difficulty I had experienced going in the opposite direction the previous day. The track itself was busy as always, and there was no dearth of carts heading for the capital. But the drivers were a singularly surly bunch and not one of them was prepared to offer me a ride in spite of my many appeals to their better natures. Two whom I physically attempted to halt by clutching at their horses’ reins were most abusive, and one even caught me a stinging blow across the shoulders with his whip. A couple of others showed me the two-fingered devil’s horn and consigned me verbally to the fires of Hell, while the rest simply ignored me or pretended not to hear.
Shortly after noon, when the sun was directly overhead and at its hottest, I stopped at a wayside cottage for a further drink of ale which, on reflection, was probably a grave mistake. If my limbs had felt like lead earlier on, they now rebelled altogether. My legs obstinately refused to obey my brain even on the increasingly rare occasions when my brain was capable of giving them orders. Three times I stumbled and nearly fell, but the fourth time I measured my length on the ground and my bruised and battered body insisted on staying there. I had just enough energy and will-power remaining to haul myself behind a large brake of gorse, out of sight of the highway, before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It was from this no doubt healing, but unfortunate, slumber that I had now awakened to discover that it was almost dusk. I had no idea how far I still was from London, but I knew that the hour was advanced and that it must be almost curfew. I scrambled to my feet and staggered back to the road which now boasted only a handful of people, late travellers like myself.
I caught one of them by the elbow. ‘How far is it to London?’ I asked, waiting with bated breath for his answer.
‘About a mile, by my reckoning.’ He turned and looked at me. ‘I shouldn’t try making it tonight,’ he advised. ‘There’s a little inn I know of ’bout a furlong further on. I’m going t’ rack up there for the night. If you’ve any sense, you’ll do the same. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look too good.’
A mile! I knew that normally my pace was roughly two miles an hour which, at the best of times, would mean another half-hour’s walking, and even that might be too late. (Unlike Piers-Pernelle, I had no knowledge of where one might breach the walls after the gates were closed.) I stared at the speaker in dismay.
‘I have to reach London tonight,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Well, you might get there before curfew, I suppose, if you hurry. But if you’ll pardon me saying so, you don’t look like you could hurry. If you want the truth, you look like a man who’s none too steady on his feet. You’d far better come with me to this inn I told you of. I’ll give you my arm.’
I shook my head. ‘Thank you, but I must get to London.’
He gave another shrug and washed his hands of me. ‘In that case, I’ll be getting along. If you want to kill yourself. .’
A minute later, he was just a speck in the distance and I was left alone on a highway that now seemed completely deserted.
‘Look, God,’ I said desperately, ‘you’ll have to do something — and something spectacular — if you want me to save this child. I know I’ve been stupid and obtuse, ignoring or not understanding the hints you’ve given me. But let’s face it, that’s nothing new. You must realize after all these centuries that you may have made us in your own image, but you didn’t give us your mind or brain. So, if you could. .’
I never finished the sentence. My silent prayer was interrupted by the sound of hoof beats, at first in the distance but then accompanied by the sight of a rider in the saddle of a great bay mare approaching at a shocking speed. Indeed, man and beast were almost upon me before I gathered my wits sufficiently to leap into their path, clutching at the animal’s reins. With a shouted curse, the horseman swerved to avoid me and, convinced he was being attacked by footpads, would have ridden me down had he not, suddenly and by the grace of God, recognized me just at the very moment that I recognized him.
William Catesby!
‘God’s toenails!’ he fumed as the horse came to a plunging halt not a yard from me. ‘Do you want to get yourself killed, Master Chapman?’ He uttered a few choice epithets before taking a closer look at me and stopping short. ‘What’s the matter, man? You look like death.’
‘Take me up behind you,’ I begged. ‘I’ll tell you as we go.’
We made it to the Lud Gate just as darkness fell and the gate was about to be closed.
‘We’ll go first to Baynard’s Castle,’ the lawyer said, ‘and get reinforcements. We can’t tackle these she-wolves on our own.’ He hesitated before adding defiantly, ‘King Richard has moved there to be with his mother. Queen Anne is staying for the moment at Crosby’s Place.’ The die was well and truly cast then. The duke’s closest adherents were already referring to him as monarch. Catesby added, ‘Hold on tightly. Let’s go.’
But we were going nowhere. It was Midsummer Eve, the Eve of St John the Baptist. We had forgotten the Marching Watch.
Thousands of citizens had been assembling in St Paul’s churchyard since mid-afternoon, and hundreds of shops all over the city had closed early so that masters and apprentices alike could take part in the spectacle. The procession, headed by members of the twelve great livery companies were just now moving off towards Cheapside followed by the guilds in all their glory of scarlet and gold. Everywhere was light as hundred upon hundreds of cressets illumined the scene. These iron baskets at the end of long poles, each containing burning wood and coals, were carried by poor men of the city especially chosen for the occasion. Every man was given a straw hat and a painted badge (proudly worn and then stored away to show his grandchildren at some future date) and beside him walked another poor man, similarly attired, carrying a bag of coals for refuelling.
The heat and light generated by these cressets was overwhelming, but as nothing to the noise that assaulted the ears from what sounded like thousands of trumpets, pipes and drums — but were probably less than a hundred in all. It was the enthusiasm of the players that created the din. Lines of armed men guarded the processional route and the flames of bonfires leapt and warmed the crowds at every crossroad. Earlier in the day, women and children had been out in the surrounding fields picking armfuls of flowers and greenery — green birch, fennel, St John’s Wort and others — to make garlands and decorate the houses. Streamers and tapestries hung from every window of those folk who could afford them, while tables groaning with food and drink stood outside the houses of the rich, each man vying with his neighbours to outdo the rest. And in the midst of all this, the Midsummer Queens of each ward were carried shoulder-high, crowned with birch leaves.
Finally, just as it seemed that the splendour had reached its zenith, came the Mayor’s Watch with Mayor Edmund Shaa mounted on a magnificent roan, his armoured sword-bearer riding before him, two mounted attendants behind and torch-bearers on either side. The crowds exploded with excitement.
Every street, alleyway and lane appeared to be blocked with a solid mass of people, moving more slowly than the procession itself because of other diversions.