I should have liked to talk to the man longer, but he was right; both Jack and Hercules were growing impatient. Only Elizabeth was content to sit and stare at the unaccustomed sights around her, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes round with wonder.
I climbed back on the seat beside Jack, and a few minutes later, we were rattling across the drawbridge that spanned the ditch by the Lud Gate. The guards, who were there to turn back lepers and other such undesirables, let us through without a murmur once Jack had stated his business and shown them the contents of his cart.
‘Bristol red cloth for the mayor and aldermen,’ he announced, not without a certain amount of pride — although his thick West Country vowels caused confusion for a moment or two.
But once any misunderstanding had been sorted out, we were waved through the gate and even accorded a sketchy salute.
‘This is London,’ I said to my daughter and laughed when she clutched me, suddenly frightened as she was swamped by the great wave of noise and activity that is the capital.
FOUR
Except for Paris, London is the noisiest city I know, a great, clamorous hive of activity, a babel of raucous street cries, the din of iron wheels rattling over cobbles, of constantly ringing bells from a hundred churches and the shrieking of kites and ravens as they scavenge for food in the open drains. Yet to me, on that St George’s Day, even the normal crescendo of sound seemed muted as if the city were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Not so to Elizabeth who clutched me tighter as another party of armed men rode by, the horses’ careless hooves splashing us with mud.
‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ I assured her, putting an arm around her and giving her a hug.
Hercules, on the other hand, although momentarily cowed, began to fight back, giving voice to his outrage and barking at everything he saw. He took particular exception to the sole pair of mummers whom we encountered, one dressed as St George, brandishing a wooden sword and with a red cross painted on his tunic, the other wearing a patently home-made dragon’s head, his paper tail trailing sadly in the dust. Both men looked dejected, obviously having met with no enthusiasm for their little play. Normally, by now, we should have met with half a dozen such couples, duelling ‘to the death’ on street corners, or with crowds watching a full-scale drama of the dragon-slaying on a raised platform in Cheapside. But today, London’s busiest thoroughfare was in sombre mood, black hangings draped from upper-floor windows and ashes sprinkled before the doorways in memory of the dead king who had been the capital’s darling for so many years.
Jack turned the cart into St Lawrence’s Lane. ‘My dropping point is Blossom’s Inn,’ he said, ‘but if you’re willing to wait while I unload, I’ll take you as far as the Bishop’s Gate.’ He added roughly, to conceal his natural tenderness of heart. ‘That girl o’ yours looks tired to her very bones. You ought not to have brought her, Roger.’
I accepted Jack’s offer meekly, guiltily observing Elizabeth’s white face and the beginnings of dark circles beneath her eyes. All the same, I knew she would recover quickly once she set eyes on her beloved stepbrother.
Blossom’s was the local name given to St Lawrence the Deacon’s Inn because the painted depiction of the saint was surrounded by a border of flowers. The inn yard was also one of the regular places throughout London where carters and carriers unloaded their goods, which were then stored under overhanging balconies until the recipients called to collect them. A couple of stout-looking lads came running out of the inn to help Jack shift the bales of red woollen cloth, and I felt obliged to lend a hand as well.
‘Any news?’ I asked, as I had enquired at every stop along our route.
The fatter of the two shook his head. ‘Nah! But everyone’s jumpy, I can tell you that.’
‘Why?’ Jack wanted to know. ‘What’s there to be jumpy about? The old king’s dead. Long live Edward the Fifth!’
The other man grimaced. ‘Easy to say,’ he grunted. ‘But apart from being an unknown quantity, the present king’s not much more’n a child. Twelve, so I’ve heard. And you know what that means. His uncles will all be grabbing for power and trying to order him about, poor little devil. And who’s going to keep all those fancy lords in order now King Edward’s gone, I should like to know. They tell me Lord Hastings and that Dorset, the queen’s son, are squabbling like a couple of dogs on heat over who’s going to get the late king’s doxy, that Mistress Shore.’
‘Oh well,’ Jack soothed, ‘I daresay things’ll settle down once the Duke of Gloucester gets here, eh?’
‘Perhaps,’ the first man said, but without much enthusiasm. ‘He’s another unknown quantity. He’s never come to Lunnon much, either. Mostly he’s lived in the north. The north!’ he added scathingly. ‘Lot o’ barbarians up there. We get a few of ’em here, unloading their goods. I can’t even understand what the buggers are saying. Like a foreign language it is!’ He stood back and surveyed the stack of bales. ‘Well, we’d better cover these up until someone arrives to claim ’em. Pass us that sacking you had ’em wrapped in, carter. Then you’d better come in and get your money. Landlord said it’d been left.’
Ten minutes later, Jack emerged from a side door of the inn, clutching a leather purse that made a satisfactory jingling sound, climbed back on the cart and took the reins.
‘What will you do now?’ I asked.
‘Hang around for a few days,’ was the reply, ‘and try to get a return freight. But if not here, I may be lucky and pick up something on the journey home. And you? How will you get back to Bristol?’
I shrugged. ‘That depends entirely on Adela and whether she’s speaking to me or not.’
Jack grinned nastily. ‘I trust you’ve thought up a good explanation for her. But if you and Bess should need my services again in the next day or two, you’ll find me at the Boar’s Head in East Cheap.’
I nodded, hoping desperately that the whole family might be returning home with me, but I didn’t say anything. To have done so would have seemed like pushing my luck.
We made our way along West Cheap, through the Poultry and Stocks Market as far as the Leadenhall, and turned up Bishop’s Gate Street, a wealthy area where the houses were mostly constructed of stone or bricks, the latter made in their hundreds out beyond the city walls, near the lime house or the white chapel. I had been here before because the largest of the mansions, lying to our right, was Crosby’s Place, usually rented by the Duke of Gloucester whenever he was in the capital, except for those occasions on which he stayed at his mother’s London home, Baynard’s Castle. And as we rumbled past in the cart, it was apparent from all the activity taking place in and around the house and gardens that His Grace was expected there soon. Men in the Gloucester livery, with the emblem of the White Boar emblazoned on their tunics, and who must have ridden on ahead of their royal master, were busily shouting orders at various menials and directing the unloading of an enormous bed and its hangings from a wagon that occupied nearly the entire width of the track.
‘Fuck you!’ Jack shouted at them as, with great difficulty, he managed to edge his cart past the obstruction, nearly colliding as he did so with another cart being driven in the opposite direction. ‘Fuck the lot of you!’