by Ann Swinfen
Each morning I made my way, head down, across the City to Seething Lane, and despite the cloak I was soaked through by the time I arrived. For once I was glad of the summer fire in Phelippes’s office, standing and steaming before it, like a ruff steaming with a crimping iron. I was glad, too, of my new boots, which kept out every bit of wet. I would recommend Liza’s cordwainer’s skills to anyone who valued a fine pair.
There had been no more trace of the new agent, David, though Sir Francis had authorised increased vigilance at the ports. This had led to the discovery of two barrels containing smuggled papist books. A merchant and several sailors were now kicking their heels in the Marshalsea prison, awaiting trial. I felt somewhat guilty, in case my suggestion of watching the ports had resulted in their arrest. I understood why the Queen and Privy Council were anxious to arrest the Catholic priests who flooded into the country from the training seminary at Rheims. The men were prepared there not merely to minister to Catholic families in England, and celebrate the mass with them. They were also trained to make new converts and to foster rebellion against the State. Several had, in the past, been involved in plots to assassinate the Queen.
However, I did not feel as strongly about Catholic books as some did. It seemed to me that what people read in the privacy of their own homes was not the business of the Privy Council. This was not, however, an opinion shared by the great men, including the one I worked for. To them, a papist book was as dangerous as a papist sword. Perhaps they were right. At least on this subject I was wise enough to keep my peace. I could understand Sir Francis’s strong feelings. He had been trapped in a house in Paris with his young family while all around the slaughter of Protestants filled the streets with blood. I knew it had marked him for life. He had even, in a moment of unusual intimacy, shared his feelings with me.
If David or any other spy had entered the country with the crowds coming to the fair, he had passed unnoticed. It could be that the name ‘David’ concealed some other identity. Many of Sir Francis’s own intelligencers assumed false names, sometimes a whole handful of them. If David was indeed a man known under some respectable true name, possibly even owning an official passport which allowed him to travel freely, then he could come and go as he pleased. No official at a port would detain him.
During those dark, damp days, Phelippes and I worked our way through the large bundle of letters and despatches, which contained little out of the ordinary. They brought us up to date on the movement of Spanish and French agents, and contained some names of new young men arriving at the seminary in Rheims. The letters from Rome were from our own intelligencers, who managed to stay well informed of the activities of the Pope and the College of Cardinals, thanks to some informers amongst the papal servants. There was even one brief despatch from the agent we knew only as ‘Hunter’, still held in the Lisbon prison, but apparently unharmed after our blundering expedition, and still able (we knew not how), to smuggle his letters out to us through a network of allies and friends.
‘How I hate this rain!’ I exclaimed to Phelippes, in the afternoon of the second day of storm. ‘I was glad of it at first, for everything was hot and dry and dirty, but we have surely had enough by now. It is as dark as night.’
We had both been obliged to light candles to see our work. Only the best beeswax were good enough, and I was conscious of the cost.
Phelippes looked up vaguely. In the general way of things, I do not think he took much notice of the weather, unless it had some effect on the working of the service.
‘Aye, it is dark.’ He seemed surprised. ‘What o’clock is it?’
He had removed his glasses, as usual, for close work, and could not see across the room to the mantel clock Sir Francis provided for us.
‘Not yet three o’ the clock. If the rain continues as heavily as this, the whole of Smithfield will turn to mud and the Fair will be quite ruined.’
Now that I had decided to go, I was somewhat put out. I should be sorry to miss the entertainment. When I lived secluded with my father, I had rarely had the chance to enjoy simple pleasures, except for occasional visits from my mathematics tutor, Master Harriot, who came to Duck Lane sometimes to make music with us. It was to Harriot that I owed several visits to the group which met in the turret room of Raleigh’s home, Durham House, to discuss matters of exploration, new discoveries, and natural science. My friendship with Simon Hetherington had introduced me to the haphazard world of the players, but I had ventured neither to Durham House nor to the company of players since my return to London.
Now that I was beginning to grope my way toward a new life, without my father and without my employment at the hospital, I still felt somewhat at sea, and the idea of belonging to a party of young people, making a visit to the Fair like any other group of Londoners, gave me a tentative sense of belonging, of finding my feet in this new life. I should be sorry if it fell through.
I woke once during that night and sat up, listening, not sure what had roused me. Then I realised that the rain, which had been lashing against my window, driven by a strong east wind, was no longer so noisy. I had been woken by silence. I climbed out of bed and padded across to the window. The boards were still cold under my bare feet, but perhaps not as cold as they had been in the unseasonable weather of the last few days.
I opened the shutters, then unlatched the window and pushed it open. The wind had dropped. The air which flowed in from outside was slightly warmer than the air inside the room. It was still raining, but it was a soft, warm, summer rain, not the cold bluster which had felt more like November than August. Although the wind had calmed here below, in the high airs the clouds still chased each other across the sky, playing tag with the moon, which gave enough light for me to see down into the street below. The kennel down the centre was running with water like a small stream and the cobbles shone slick with wet, like so many fragments of the moon itself, cast down upon the earth. If the rain continued to die away, there was every chance that the grounds of Smithfield would dry up enough for the booths and stalls to be erected today and tomorrow, ready for the Fair.
Leaving the shutters open, so the warmer air could flow into the room, I padded back to bed. Already the boards felt less cold. I pulled the feather bed up round my shoulders and turned on my side. Before I could put two thoughts together, I was asleep.
At breakfast, a note was delivered from Ambrose, addressed to both Anne and me. I handed it to Anne to open, since he was her brother. She read it quickly.
‘Ambrose says he will come tomorrow afternoon, and the three of us can go to see the Fair being set up. Then he will stay the night here, so the following morning we can leave early, in good time for us to reach Newgate before the Lord Mayor arrives to open the Fair. Mistress Hawes will arrive later, in her father’s carriage.’ She gave a wicked grin. ‘It seems that Mistress Hawes is not accustomed to having to walk through the dirty streets of London.’
‘Hmm,’ I said, ‘I am not sure that bodes well. She will have to walk on her own two feet about the Fair, and I cannot say that the ground of Smithfield is the cleanest in London. They will shovel away the worst of the dirty straw and dung, but all the rest of the year it is a market for beasts. One cannot expect it to resemble Whitehall Palace! Have you met the lady?’
‘Once only. She is rather fine. I think my brother is somewhat in awe of her.’
‘I hope she may not put a damper on our holiday.’
‘If she tries to, we will leave them to their own devices,’ she said. ‘You and I, and your friend Peter.’
‘Peter may also bring a young lady, though I think he is a little shy of asking her.’
‘We shall be three couples, then. You must be my beau!’
I laughed, for I knew she was only teasing. ‘What would your affianced say to that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, we are not strictly affianced yet,’ she said, reddening a little. ‘Though, to be sure, Master Francisco Pinto de Brito is a match much more to my taste than that elde
rly banker in Lyons that my father was talking about last year.’
I was not sure whether the banker from Lyons was as elderly as Anne made out, but I knew how she had hated thought of being sent off to France, to marry some unknown man whom Ruy had picked merely to strengthen his own trading and political alliances. Anne’s current prospect, Master Francisco Pinto de Brito, would be much more to her taste. She knew him and liked him, though I am not sure that she was in love with him. However, she longed fervently to remain in England and had been horrified at Ruy’s plans to move the entire family to Portugal on completion of the successful restoration of Dom Antonio to the throne. Like her mother, Anne had been born in England and regarded herself as English, whatever her father might say. She did not even speak Portuguese, apart from a few simple words.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I will squire you to the Fair, but should we encounter Master Francisco, you must excuse me if I run away before he can draw his sword.’
She laughed, and I went off to pen a note to Peter. He would not be able to take time off to come with us for our preliminary look around the fairground, but would join us for the opening by the Lord Mayor. I suggested that we meet by the hospital gatekeeper’s lodge before the ceremony, so that we would have time to find a good place to see and hear everything.
I borrowed some sealing wax from Sara and sealed my letter, stamping it with the seal Arthur Gregory had made for me before my visits to the Low Countries last year, which I had retrieved from Phelippes’s office. I gave the kitchen boy a farthing to deliver it for me to Bartholomew Hospital. Leaving Sara’s cloak behind, I set off for Walsingham’s house under a warm sun, which was quickly drying the muddy streets.
Chapter Five
As he had promised, Ambrose arrived shortly after noon the next day and joined us for a meal before we set out. I had not seen him since the spring, and in the meantime he had grown a beard, exquisitely trimmed to a neat point by some modish barber. His clothes too were of the latest fashion. I need not have worried about borrowing his old clothes to replace my rags during the previous month, while my own new ones were made. So fine a gentleman would not deign to wear such plain garments! Today he wore a doublet of tawny velvet, its sleeves puffed out with excessive padding and slashed so that the lining of purple satin could be pulled through. The buttons were gold – or perhaps gilt silver – embossed with the Tudor rose, blazoning forth his loyalty to the crown
Even his breeches were velvet, of a dark forest green, and his hose (which displayed a fine, shapely leg) were of white silk. I feared they might suffer in Smithfield, for – although the returned sun had done much to dry the streets – there is usually a goodly layer of mixed mud and dung paving the whole area where the Fair is held, which was unlikely to be fully hardened yet.
I hid my smile at all this finery, but Anne, with a sister’s licence for frankness, did not.
‘’Sblood, Ambrose, you are got up for a day at court!’ she said, as we rose from the table. ‘What are you doing here in Wood Street? Do you mistake us for Whitehall or Hampton Court? Kit and I shall be obliged to follow humbly along behind, like your household servants.’
Ambrose looked half annoyed and half embarrassed.
‘Just because you dress like a shopkeeper’s daughter, my maid, that does not mean the rest of the family must do the same.’
Privately, I thought this unjust, for Anne was very suitably dressed in an overskirt and bodice of the finest wool, a rich blue, picking up the colour of her eyes, and her hair was neatly tucked into a net of lace sewn with pearls, while the embroidered underskirt which showed beneath the front opening in her skirt was of silk the colour of cream. Taking my advice, she was wearing stout boots.
I knew that brother and sister were very fond of each other, despite this exchange, and for a moment my heart ached, remembering those long-lost days when I too had a brother and sister to tease.
Ambrose drew himself up to his full height.
‘You must know, little sister, that I do often have business at Whitehall and Hampton Court, and Greenwich Palace too, for our grandfather often sends me in his place these days. One must dress the part. I deal only with the senior members of Her Majesty’s entourage, and one must not appear slovenly and underdressed.’
‘Her entourage!’ Anne said, drawing the word out. ‘By Heaven, brother, where did you learn that long word? Are we to be permitted to walk with you at all, then?’
He laughed and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Enough. Time we were off. Is your friend to meet us today, Kit?’
‘Nay,’ I said, ‘he would not be able to leave his work, but he has arranged matters so that he can join us tomorrow, and the other days of the Fair, if we decide to return again.’
‘Excellent,’ Ambrose said. ‘Well, let us be on our way.’
Young Anthony was waiting by the door as we left, and begged to come with us.
‘Not today, Anthony,’ Anne said. ‘Mama has said she will take you and the little ones tomorrow when the Fair opens.’
‘Will you bring me back some gingerbread?’ Anthony was clearly sulking.
‘The gingerbread stalls won’t be open until tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Today the men will just be building the booths and setting up the stalls and tents.’
‘Then why are you going?’
It was a fair question. We were going merely for amusement’s sake, but we would not be the only ones. There is something magical about seeing a dull and familiar place – in the case of Smithfield, quite an ugly place – transformed into something strange and wonderful. When the Fair was over, it would vanish away again, like those palaces that disappear in the old tales, seen for a time as if in a dream, yet solid and real, only to fade away like a puff of smoke.
We set off down Wood Street until we reached the corner where I had parted with Peter after the wedding, then turned west along Cheapside. This led us to Newgate Street, then past Newgate Prison and under the gate in the City wall. Just inside the gate I saw the man who sold roast chestnuts in winter. Today he had a tray of candied plums. They looked a little withered, but we bought a paper cone of them, for he looked very forlorn, as if he were doing little business. He recognised me, for I often bought chestnuts from him.
‘Thank ’ee, young master’, he said, his grin showed the gaps between his teeth. ‘Business a’nt good these days.’
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Come the Fair tomorrow, you’ll be doing a roaring trade.’
‘I’ve no money to rent a stall,’ he said glumly, ‘nor even the sixpence for a licence to carry my tray round the fairground.’
‘Here,’ said Ambrose, opening his purse and handing the man a sixpence. ‘That will buy you a licence for the whole Fair, and good luck to your trade.’
That was more like the younger Ambrose, I thought. The fine clothes were no more than dressing over the honest man beneath.
The chestnut seller seemed astonished, gazing at the coin on his palm as if he expected it to melt away. ‘Why, I thank ’ee, sir,’ he said, tugging at his cap in a kind of clumsy salute. ‘That’ll do finely. I be much obliged, sir.’
He would have gone on heaping thanks on us, but we smiled and took our leave. Ambrose looked truly embarrassed.
‘It was but sixpence,’ he muttered, as we turned up past the cookshops in Pie Corner.
‘To a man like that,’ I said, ‘sixpence may make all the difference between life and death.’
‘You exaggerate, Kit,’ he said.
‘Nay, I do not.’
I thought of how close I had been to such desperation myself, just a few weeks earlier, and how much I owed to Ambrose’s mother. With my wages from my work at Seething Lane I was beginning to pay off my debt to her, but I had kept a little back to spend at the Fair.
Although there was still a day to go before the Fair began, the whole of Smithfield was a-buzz. It was as noisy as a market day, but instead of the mooing and baaing that usually deafened those making their way to Bartho
lomew’s hospital or the church of St Bartholomew-the-Great, there was shouting, hammering, cursing, the rattle of carts, and the crash as loads of timber were dumped. Smithfield is probably one of the noisiest places in London, whether given over to the regular market, the annual Fair, or the occasional more sinister purpose – the burning of heretics.
I suppose the place has always been used for a livestock market, lying as it does just outside the City wall, but close enough for the convenient supply of meat. I’ve often wondered whether it was already here when the original Priory of St Bartholomew was built beside it, all those centuries ago. A priory, I suppose, is meant for a place of quiet contemplation and prayer, but it cannot have been very peaceful for the monks who dwelt here in such close proximity to the market. Though in truth they had always been an outward looking group, those monks of St Bartholomew, for hundreds of years maintaining their large hospital to relieve the suffering of the poor citizens of London, and their extensive giving of alms and care for widowed women and destitute orphans. All that had ended with King Harry’s reforms.
For a time after the priory was dissolved, so I had been told, the fate of the very church itself lay in the balance, as the monastic buildings began to be demolished and the hospital lay abandoned. Part of the church was torn down and a cluster of small houses built in the priory grounds, using the salvaged stone from priory and church. The loss of help for the poor half a century ago from all the monastic institutions had led to the streets of London becoming filled with beggars and the sick, spreading disease and crime throughout the City.
