Whitsun and Midsummer Eve produced their potential dangers but none could rival May Day. October was a quieter month but even the occasional saint’s day could be fraught with difficulty. Caution was advisable.
‘Stay indoors with your mistress, Hans.’
‘I would rather visit the play with you, sir.’
‘The city is too turbulent a place today.’
‘You will keep me safe, Master Bracewell.’
‘Remain here at home.’
The apprentice was plainly disappointed. Though he had yet to recover his memory, his youthful instincts had returned intact. He wanted to be off in search of sport with his fellows or, at the very least, to be part of the audience which would come in high humour to the Queen’s Head to watch a performance of The Constant Lover given by Westfield’s Men. Anne Hendrik ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately.
‘Stay here and keep me company, Hans.’
A resigned nod. ‘As you wish, mistress.’
‘Preben van Loew and I will dream up games for you.’
‘Where is the holiday in that?’
Nicholas Bracewell took his leave of his young friend and was seen off at the front door by Anne. The outside of the house was still bruised and blackened from the fire and the very sight of it was warning enough. He gave her a kiss then set off through the streets. Wanting to visit the house on the Bridge again, he yet felt a strong obligation to cross the river by boat. It had given him no pleasure to see Abel Strudwick so totally outwitted at the flyting contest but he felt that it was a necessary hurt to ward off heavier blows for all of them. When he found the waterman at the wharf, he made an apology that was never completed. Strudwick interrupted with chuckling resilience.
‘Nay, sir, do not bother about me. My back is broad though I would rather bend it in the service of these oars than let that harridan beat it with her scoldings. She gave good insults and they were justly deserved.’
‘You take your punishment nobly, sir.’
‘I spoke out of turn, Master Bracewell,’ admitted the other. ‘I’ll face any man in the kingdom with my curses but I’ll not offend a lady if I have choice.’
‘Mistress Firethorn is an honest woman.’
‘She proved that on my pate.’
Abel Strudwick rowed between two other boats that all but collided with him. Ripe language hit both of them like a tidal wave. Replies were foul and fierce but he got the better of them with the virulence of his tongue. It put him into excellent humour again.
‘Have you fresh music?’ asked Nicholas.
‘My Muse has left me awhile, good sir.’
‘She will return again.’
‘Then I will keep her here on the water with me,’ said the other. ‘My verses do not belong on the stage in front of baying clods and sneering gallants.’ He looked all around. ‘This is my playhouse, sir. The gulls can hear my music and applaud with their wings. I am author and actor when I am out in midstream. No bawling woman can drag me down in my occupation, however well she swim. I am a true waterman, sir.’
Nicholas was delighted that his friend had bowed so humbly to the reality of the situation and he gave him an extra tip when he disembarked. Other passengers clambered into the boat at once. Holidays turned the Thames into a thousand moving bridges. Abel Strudwick would be kept busy until nightfall. He still found time for a farewell.
‘Good fortune attend the play, sir!’
‘Thank you, Abel.’
‘It is a comedy that you stage, I think.’
‘Tragedy is out of place on such a merry day.’
‘Pray God some rabble do not spoil your offering.’
‘No fear of that, I hope.’
Celebrations began early at the White Hart in Cheapside. Wine, beer and ale were plentiful and there was food enough to satisfy the most gluttonous appetites. As the day wore on, the taproom became so full with boisterous apprentices that they spilt out into the yard and passed the time in japes and jeers and being sick in the privies. Serving wenches were groped, ostlers were mocked and scapegoats had their breeches torn off. Small fights broke out to liven up the occasion and old scores were settled between youths from rival trades. Afternoon found the drunken rowdiness slowly changing into a brawling fever for which the area was famous.
Cheapside was the broadest and straightest of London’s streets, a major artery that carried the lifeblood of the city. Along the centre of the street, from St Paul’s to the Carfax, was an open market for all manner of goods. Every important public procession passed through Cheapside and shoddily produced goods were traditionally burnt there. It was another kind of procession that now staggered along, a ragged band of apprentices who had been gathered up from other inns and taverns along the street by the industrious Firk who had spread the word that beer was being sold at reduced prices in the White Hart and that a wild time was in store for all who came. As Firk led the way into the yard, the newcomers were given a hostile reception by those already packed in and there was much preliminary pushing and shoving. Abundant supplies of beer and ale were brought out to quench the thirst of all and incite them on to more destructive pleasures. Firk watched until a stew was bubbling furiously and he gave a signal to the man who was watching it all from a room in the upper gallery with his one good eye.
James Renfrew calmly finished his glass of wine and crossed to give the naked woman who lolled on the bed a last kiss. Then he pulled on his doublet and went off downstairs to take charge of the fire that his accomplice was so busily stoking up. With sword in hand, he ran into the yard and jumped up onto a table so that he could stamp on it with his feet to gain attention. Even the swirling revelry was stilled for a second. Renfrew was a striking figure with a voice that knew how to command.
‘Friends!’ he yelled. ‘There’s villainy abroad!’
‘Where, sir?’ shouted Firk on cue.
‘Close by this inn. I saw it with my own eyes. Five brawny Dutch apprentices set on one poor English lad and gave him such a drubbing that I fear for his life.’
‘Shame!’ roared Firk.
‘Where are they?’ howled a dozen voices.
‘They are everywhere!’ replied Renfrew, pointing his sword in different directions as he spoke. ‘Aliens are taking over London. We have Genoese, we have Venetians, we have cheese-eating Swiss. You may find Germans in every street and Frenchmen in every bawdy house. There are Dutchmen in Billingsgate and Polish in Rotherhithe. We are beset by strangers!’
‘Drive the aliens out!’ bellowed Firk.
‘Vengeance on the strangers!’
‘Break their foreign heads!’
‘Smash their houses!’
‘Kill them! Kill them!’
‘London belongs to Londoners!’ urged Renfrew.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’
‘We defeated the Spanish Armada,’ he said, ‘yet those same swarthy gentlemen now swagger through our city and defile our womenfolk! Foreigners out, I say!’
‘Foreigners out! Foreigners out!’
Renfrew whipped them up until their bloodlust was so strong it simply wanted direction in order to expend itself. He and Firk led the charge out of the yard. With a hundred or more berserk apprentices at their back, they ran along Eastcheap and into Lombard Street, knocking aside anyone who got in their way, smashing windows out of sheer malice and screaming obscenities. Constables came out to confront them but the ferocity of the mob swept the thin line of authority aside as if it had not been there, surging on into Gracechurch Street then swinging right towards the Bridge with gathering fury. In the space of a few minutes, aimless youths with too much beer in their bellies had been turned into a vicious machine of destruction. It rolled remorselessly on.