by Helen East
Hackney Wick was just a kink in the bank, a place where small boats could harbour. Stepney was Stebenhythe, a simple landing place. There were no barriers to hold the river back, or drainage ditches and diversions to claim the land from the water. To the east of London, all was mostly marsh, the rivers winding through, with various flooding branches. A damp home for fishermen and eel catchers, and a haven for wildfowl and all who fed on them; although hunters carefully picked their way for fear of finding a watery grave.
But little by little, London townsmen were turning their eyes towards it. Bishops of London owned the Manor of Stepney, and one, Dunstan, on becoming a saint had his name added to the church there. Edward I improved the banks, and made Stepney a place for a parliament, and Mayors of London, encouraged by this, promptly acquired estates. It was land where they could expand, and perhaps enjoy a bit of sport, within the easy reach of court. If they wanted more, they could follow the marsh north, and meet with Epping Forest royal hunting grounds. So – as in those days a moment caught in the regal gaze could raise one from the depths to the heights of praise – a Stepney Marsh mudbank, just an ‘ey’ in the ooze, gained name and fame as the ‘Isle of Dogs’ where a royal pack could kennel. And then James I came to the throne, and wanting the fresh air, clear of the Plague zone, and the chance to hunt ever nearer to home, he built his hunting lodge and palace at Bromley by Bow.
So, everyone who was anyone was soon seen on the Stepney flatlands. And one who was definitely someone – in his own eyes at least – was the noble Sir Berry. He was out hunting with a party of friends, celebrating the christening of his son and heir. Full of the joys of life, and the happy assurance of a stable future, he gave his horse its head, chasing after a hound that had got the scent of something more than fowl. Not noticing how far back his friends had fallen, nor how late the day had become, he was caught suddenly in a thick marsh mist that rose out of nowhere. It was so clammy and confusing, even the dog was utterly confounded and crept back whining at the echo of its bark.
Sir Berry reined in and turned back to join the others, but it was impossible to retrace his steps. Hour after hour, he wandered in circles, until the horse stopped abruptly and refused to take another step. Then he heard a sound from behind that at first he took to be a hunting horn. When it came again he realised it was the wail of a child. He turned the horse and headed back towards it, and now the beast went on without objection. At last they came to a flickering light which turned out to be a candle in the window of a ramshackle house, hardly more than a reed hut. The dog was already at the door and he pushed in after. Inside a fire was roaring, with a woman sitting by it. She turned as he entered.
‘Thank God,’ he said, ‘I thought I was lost.’
‘Thank Lady Luck too,’ she answered. ‘It was her wheel who brought you here.’
He was taken aback, both by her words and the way she spoke, so directly, without deference. ‘I am no gambler, guided by luck,’ he said curtly. ‘In these settled times I can decide my own path.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ she replied. ‘But come, sit by the fire. There is little enough to eat, but you’re welcome to all I have. Or perhaps you would like to see to your horse first. Tell me, does he have a white blaze between his ears?’ She smiled at his astonishment. ‘Ah, then you are the man I was expecting. As fate foretold. And if you want your proof of fortune’s power, retrace your steps tomorrow in the light, and see the place your horse had stopped before you heard my daughter cry.’ It was only then that he saw a baby, cradled in her arms. A tiny creature younger than his son, but with eyes of the most astonishing blue.
‘Hold her, if you will,’ the woman said, ‘while I find you some food. And let you get to know her too, for tomorrow I will be gone, and she must go with you. Forgive me, but she will repay the task of looking after her. Rebecca is her name, and she is destined for good fortune and fame. As I was told, and swear it’s true, her fate is to marry into the noble family of Berry. So whoever you are, sir, she will well look after you.’
Shocked into silence, Sir Berry held the child, ate the food given him, and waited for the first light of morning to escape. As soon as he could see he crept outside, got onto his horse, and for want of other options, retraced his steps. Soon enough, he came to where the horse had halted so determinedly. Another step, he could see now, would have landed them both in the water, the River Lea still running so high and wild they would not have stood a chance.
The dog was whining and running backwards and forwards in the direction of the house. Again Sir Berry could hear the child crying. But this time, as he stepped inside, the woman said nothing. She sat in the chair, cold and dead. The prophecy still running in his head, Sir Berry picked up the child, wrapped her in soft well-woven cloth, and carried her back to the river. ‘This child to marry into my house? This girl to wed my son? This nobody?’ He could not let it be. ‘Her fate ends here!’ he cried, and threw her into the angry water. Then in the early morning sun he made his way back home.
The river wound its way down towards a mill. The cloth was tightly woven, the girl held buoyant. Above the mill race, a fisherman had set his net and was already there to see what the night had brought. To his astonishment, he saw a child spinning in the stream and quickly fished her out. He and his wife had no children of their own, and they were delighted at the river’s gift. Embroidered carefully in the corner of the cloth was the letter ‘R’. When the parson told them what it said, they called her the first name that came into their head – Rebecca. The river’s daughter.
Time passed, and Sir Berry’s son, John, grew into a fine youth with his father’s love of hunting. One day, while riding by the Lea, he felt thirsty, and seeing a cluster of fishermen’s huts he stopped to ask for a drink. An old man called for his daughter to bring out a jug of small beer, but the moment John looked into her blue eyes he forgot his thirst and everything else. They talked a little together and the more he heard her speak the more he wondered how she could be a simple fisherman’s daughter.
‘Ah, but Sir!’ her foster father explained proudly. ‘She is the daughter of the Lea, she is. She came with her name embroidered on fine cloth and no matter what we teach her she can never learn enough. She can sew and spin and do anything. Next thing she’ll be reading and writing!’
The lad was so love-struck, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and word of this girl soon reached his father. What he heard made him so concerned that he got on his horse and went straight to the girl’s house. One look at her and he knew right enough, and his fears were confirmed by the cloth. As he listened to her father, his thoughts were whirling, but soon he saw what line to take.
‘It seems that she is destined for a higher life,’ he said. ‘Would you like her to read and write? If you trust her to me, I will do what is right.’
The fisherman and his wife were broken-hearted to let their daughter go. But they did not want to stand in her way. And so, for the second time, Sir Berry took Rebecca on his horse before him and rode away.
Taking her to a dressmaker he had her fitted out with cloaks and gowns and all she might need for a long journey, as if he was indeed the second father to her that he had promised to be. Meanwhile he wrote to his cousin in the North country.
This beautiful girl is going to destroy both my son and myself. Guard her carefully and as soon as you may have her killed for John’s sake
with this ring of mine I send proof I am
your loving cousin
Sir J. Berry
Then, giving Rebecca the sealed letter to deliver for him, Sir Berry hired a coach and coachmen to take her to his cousin, and sent her off to certain death.
The journey to the North was long, the roads were rough, and times had changed since the promise of peace and stability brought by James. Charles was on the throne now, and there were open arguments between the King and City guilds, and Parliament too. While the king’s men were occupied, keeping an eye on the south, the King�
��s Highway was left to look after itself. Highwaymen and brigands were quick to take control of roads; cutpurses and thieves closed in on coaching inns. One night Rebecca’s bags were rifled while she slept, though the looters found nothing but the letter from Sir Berry, with the ring tied round it. The seal looked important, so they broke it open, and their leader, who had learnt his letters, read it out loud. But when they heard what it said, and they saw how sweet she looked, they were all so indignant that they made a scribe revise it, and carefully wash a few letters away.
This beautiful girl is going to bring joy to my son and myself. Guard her carefully and as soon as you may have her married to John
with this ring of mine.
your loving cousin
Sir J. Berry
So when at last Rebecca arrived, and delivered the letter and ring to Sir Berry’s cousin and his wife, she was welcomed with open arms, and soon made to feel part of the family.
Meanwhile, young John Berry had joined King Charles’ cavalry. As the civil strife worsened he was sent here and there, to gather or give support as needed. Finding himself not far from his father’s cousins, he decided to pay them a visit. What was his delight to find Rebecca staying there, and then to his amazement he was shown his father’s letter. He wrote at once to thank him, and to make sure that he would be coming to the wedding, preparations for which were begun at once.
Trouble on the roads made communications bad, and Sir Berry did not receive the letter for some time. When he did, he could not understand how things could have gone so awry, but, hoping to prevent the worst from happening, he called for his coach and four, ordering his coachman to drive him with all haste to the North.
The journey passed this time without trouble on the road, but Sir Berry was too late. The church bells were ringing, the floor was strewn with flowers, and the ring was already on the finger of the bride when he arrived. But even when his cousin – waving the fateful letter – congratulated him on finding a daughter who’d ‘bring as much joy’ as Rebecca, John’s angry father refused to accept that the deed was done. Pushing past well-wishers, he caught hold of the bride and, taking her to his coach, he bundled her inside. ‘I regret to tell you,’ he said, ‘but your mother has died.’ Then he called to the coachman to turn about, and return to London again.
Rebecca sat in silent shock, huddled in her cloak, almost all she’d had time to snatch as she was hurried out. The journey took fewer days, for they only stopped to allow the horses to be changed. And the coachman too, when he got so tired he fell asleep and slipped off his seat. But all the way Sir Berry sat glaring, refusing to explain.
So, at last, they arrived at London town, but instead of turning eastwards they drove on south, heading for London Bridge. The morning was just dawning when the coach finally stopped. Sir Berry got down and, helping her out, he led Rebecca onto the bridge. Past the stalls and houses, where hardly a soul was stirring, to the gap where they could see directly down on to the river. The tide was turning and the Thames was high, a seething mass of black murderous water swirling swiftly by.
‘Why are we here?’ Rebecca asked. ‘What has this to do with my mother?’ When Sir Berry didn’t answer, she looked up into his face, and the rage she saw in his eyes made her suddenly afraid.
‘Your mother died many years ago,’ he said, ‘when you were born. She told me you must marry my son. She was wrong. You will never be his wife. Give me back my ring that you stole from me, through him!’
She bowed her head, and slipped it slowly from her finger, holding it warm for a moment before she handed it over. ‘Take back your ring,’ she said, ‘but you can never break the love I have with John.’
He pulled her closer to the river’s edge. Holding the ring high, he flung it far out into the water, and they both watched it sink. ‘Now I do swear,’ Sir Berry cried, ‘that if I ever see your hand once more, without that wedding ring upon it, I will throw you too into the Thames, as tide is high again.’ And then he was gone, Rebecca left alone.
She did not go home. She felt she could not let her foster parents know – after all they had done and hoped for – how badly things had gone wrong. But her feet led her eastwards, knowing no other way to go, and she followed the river aimlessly along the north side. Passing Billingsgate, and the fish market as it was beginning to stir, she came at last to a tavern overlooking the Isle of Dogs, and there she stopped and rested in the shelter of the door.
Little did she guess it was a smugglers’ meeting place. ‘The Devil’s Tavern’, it was called by all around. An inn where people ‘watched the wall’ and did not look at who came past, and asked no questions about what was rolled in barrels, in or out. But where else could a young girl in a bridal dress, with only a cloak and a handful of coins, hope to hide with no one to pry? There were private rooms aplenty where she could stay if she could pay. And when her money ran out, she asked if there was work. The cook, whose heart was as warm as the fine French brandy that the tavern somehow always had in plentiful supply, gave her a chance as a kitchen maid.
The tavern keeper was well repaid, however, for taking her on, for despite her looks they soon found that she worked as fast as any seasoned fish wife, not only cutting, gutting and cleaning fish, but also cooking it, and other dishes too. She could make good solid meals to satisfy a working man, and yet she also knew, from her time in the North, how to create the most delicate titbit, to please the palate of the highest gentle born. It soon became a fashion, even for the royal court, to stop at the tavern and feast away their cares.
Meanwhile, John had followed his father back to London as quickly as he could, wondering what had happened to his bride. What was his horror to hear from his father that Rebecca had slipped into the river and died. On her way to her sick mother, Sir Berry explained, she had tried to ford the Lea when the tide was too high. John was inconsolable. He couldn’t sleep, and wouldn’t eat. He almost lost all will for life. But as the time passed, civil war broke out in earnest. Now there was nothing for him to do but fight.
Years passed. Then one day Rebecca was asked by the cook to go to Billingsgate market and pick out the best from the fresh catches there, for she was to help prepare a feast for some very important guests. Returning loaded with the finest fish to be found, Rebecca began to cut and gut the biggest one of the batch. In its stomach something was shining. It was a ring. A wedding ring. And as she pulled it out, she saw it was her own. Slowly she slipped it onto her finger and for a moment stood there motionless, savouring the feel of it there, back where it belonged.
Then she got on with her task, preparing the fish dish for the feast. It was a wedding party, she heard now, so she decorated the plate with flowers. That evening, her work done, she heard the guests arrive, and peeped out as they went past to see what they looked like. First to come was a white-haired man, with his back to her, talking to someone. But then he turned, and she saw to her shock that he was old Sir Berry. And the man he was talking to – oh! He looked thin and gaunt, to her loving eyes, and one cheek was scared with a long thin line. But yet he was still her John. ‘He’s the one getting married,’ said the cook, who’d also come for a quick look. ‘He doesn’t look happy though, does he?’ And indeed he seemed as sad and pale as if he was at his own funeral.
Rebecca went and washed her face, and did the best she could with her dress. The wedding guests were seated now, and waiting for the feast. Picking up the great fish dish that she’d prepared so carefully, Rebecca walked into the room with her head held high. Even in her serving clothes, she was beautiful. But that was not what caught the bridegroom’s eye. It was something to do with the way she moved. He gave a start; he felt his whole heart jump. Then she looked straight into his face and he was sure. Her blue, blue eyes held his against all possibilities. It could not be, and yet he knew it was.
Sir Berry saw his son leaping to his feet, and, looking at Rebecca, he recognised her too. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped in front of him, and pu
tting down the fish, she held up her left hand. ‘I have something to show you,’ she said, and pointed to the ring. Her wedding ring. His signet ring.
And in that moment at long last, Sir Berry knew that he was beaten. ‘What fate has set down,’ he said, ‘I see now cannot be undone. Here is Rebecca, my son’s true bride. What God has joined together, we cannot then divide.’
And John? He was still staring. Hoping, yet afraid that he could not believe his eyes. ‘I thought you were lost,’ he said to her. ‘They told me you were drowned.’
Rebecca laughed, and took his hand. ‘My love, I am a child of the water. The river would never let me down.’
The monument of Dame Rebecca Berry, widow of Sir John, is at St Dunstan and All Saints church, Stepney. It is in the shape of a shield, with a coat of arms above, which shows three fish, and what appears to be a ring. Below is an inscription:
As fair a mind
As e’er yet lodg’d in womankind.
So she was dress’d whose humble life
Was free from pride, was free from strife.
Still the same humble she appears
The same in youth, the same in years,
The same in low and high estate.
17
LIGHT-HEARTED
HIGHWAYMAN
Stephen Bunce was a real gentleman of the road. It was almost a pleasure to have to deliver your purse to him; he robbed with such politeness and lightness of touch. And he was so quick thinking and witty too. He nearly made you laugh at your own sad plight. And he certainly had everyone else laughing when they heard about the tricks he played.
But like anyone, he had his ups and downs of course. Sometimes he was in pocket and riding high, and sometimes he had to walk the length and breadth of Epping Forest on foot. Once he was doing that with a friend. Maybe she was a lady friend and he had started out with other things on his mind. But there in front of them was an old man walking slow and steady along the path, leading a donkey on a longish rope behind him. Too good an opportunity to miss.
