by Ian Mortimer
I head to the quay where several large sea-going vessels are moored. You’d not have seen such a sight in my day for, in the year I was born, Lord Courtenay blocked up the river with a weir. After that, all goods had to be unloaded at Topsham, so he could profit from the lading tolls. The citizens must have opened up the old way again. But these vessels are far removed from the single-masted hulks and cogs on which William and I sailed to France. Most have two or three masts. As for the quay itself, it is considerably longer and wider than it was, with open-fronted warehouses. Many men are busy carrying barrels and crates on wheeled transporters from the sides of the ships.
At the near end of the quay is an elegant new building. It is two storeys high, with glass windows on the upper floor and a white-painted pediment above. Crates and bound-up goods are stacked under the open arches on the ground floor. But the most remarkable thing about it is that its walls are built of small rectangular reddish blocks. These are new to me. They look like sandstone but they are harder. I wonder where they were quarried, and why such a rare and fine stone should be used for a structure down here, where only the workers and shipmen will see it.
I walk back to the West Gate, pass under the old stone arch, and climb the steep lane that leads into the heart of the city. Every building here has changed: every angle is square; every roof that was tiled is now slated; every building that was two storeys is now three or four. The filth of the place, however, has not altered at all. The streets still stink of cesspits and rotting refuse. Nor have the lines of the roads moved. They remain timeless casts of ancient paths and directions. They are the true estate of the people.
The main streets, which are cobbled or covered in gravel, are crowded with horses, wagons, carriages and small carts. The smaller carriages without roofs are mostly drawn by a single animal, the larger ones with roofs are mostly pulled by a pair. Many more people are riding than in my day, and those on foot have to pick their way carefully between the animals and vehicles to avoid injury, at the same time avoiding the piles of dung in the street. Every so often a carter has to call out to warn someone that he or she is stepping into his path, or a horseman shouts to let him past. There is clearly an etiquette as to who should make way for whom, and this applies to those on foot as well as those riding. Always it is the best-dressed people who maintain their line. One young man with white hair raises his long stick and uses the point of it to guide other people gently out of his way.
The old South Gate has been extended, with huge drum towers projecting beyond the walls; that work was obviously done in the distant past as the stonework is in a poor state of repair. The street itself is narrower and more cramped. Whereas in my day each of the hall houses was sixty or seventy feet wide, with a great arch leading to the courtyard behind, now very few have a frontage of more than twenty feet and they all have narrow doors, not gates. Every one of them is taller, rubbing shoulders with its neighbour. They each have a gabled roof, peering down on passers-by. I get the impression that they are all holding out their palms imploringly to passing customers, shuffling forward like a row of mitred beggars.
On the north side of the street, where the Bear Inn used to stand, there is a painted board hanging down from a projecting iron frame. I have noticed many of these signs in the street leading to the South Gate but this one gives me a special thrill. It shows a picture of a bear.
It is a salutary thought that something as insubstantial as a name can endure so long. I have seen that towns sometimes do change their names – as Moreton has become Moretonhampstead – but on the whole, people returning to a place years after their own time can rely on it being called the same thing. Tradition, like a centuries-old creeper of ivy, slowly winds its way into the crevices of our conversations and fastens itself on to such words, holding them firmly in place. You’d have thought that it was the private property, kept away from prying eyes and jealous fingers, which would endure. But all the houses from my time have been replaced. As for possessions, fires consume them, thieves steal them, and time erodes them. But common things, like names and roads, last for centuries.
Sunlight is reflected into my eyes from the square windows at the front of the Bear Inn. Somewhere a great bell rings – and before it has finished its twelfth call, others around the city have started to chime too. I close my eyes and try to recall how the inn appeared in my day. I remember an arch here, and the way through to a courtyard beyond. The stables were at the back of the yard, the hall on the left, and a chapel on the right – for the inn was owned by the abbots of Tavistock. There was a goodly hearth in the middle of the hall, and a staircase up to a solar wing at the back where wealthy guests could stay. Those of us who paid less bedded down on straw-filled mattresses in the hall, sometimes having a mug of ale beside our log headrests. Normally just two candles were left burning – two spots of golden light in the great darkness – so that heading over to piss in the buckets in the corner was an awkward business. Sometimes you’d hear people fornicating, as the inn’s whores plied their trade. In the morning, when we all roused ourselves, the people travelling a long way would call for ale for their breakfast. Then it was a case of finding the leather-aproned innkeeper, sorting out the silver pennies, retrieving the weapons you’d left with him, and summoning the stable lads to bring your horse.
A man calls out and a covered carriage speeds past. For an instant, I catch a glimpse through the window of the tall-hatted occupant: he seems bored. A moment later he has gone, rattling down towards the South Gate, his driver cracking a long whip on the backsides of two black horses, their harnesses rattling. I watch the carriage go, pondering on the fact that these days even vehicles have glass in their windows, and those who can afford to travel in such luxury can also afford to regard the experience as tedious.
I enter the inn. There are several small rooms at the front, with low beams. Each one is occupied by an individual group. In the first, I see two men in long tunics with white, combed-back hair. One has his back to the window and is leaning across a table stirring a steaming drink that looks like mud. His companion is holding up a huge piece of white vellum-like material and talking about the loss of a warship off the Channel Islands. Apparently the Victory has sunk with all hands. More than nine hundred men have perished and a hundred cannon have been lost. The boat cost more than thirty-eight thousand pounds to build, he says, reading from the large sheet of vellum. I want to stay and listen to more but the man stirring the mud looks at me in an unfriendly way. So I move on, my mind reeling with the thought of a ship so large it could contain nearly a thousand men, and which cost more than the annual wages of six thousand masons like me. Think what you could build with just a quarter of that number! Vessels like that must be the cathedrals of this new age.
There is a small table set into an opening where a cheery-looking man and his female companion are being served. I watch the maidservant lay a white linen cloth across the table and set down two polished platters, and a dish of bread and butter with some cheese, and then a meat pie with a pastry top. In the next room a young man in white silk breeches and silver-coloured tunic is sprawled across a chair, and the remains of a feast are spread over the table. There are two flouncy women with him, their cheeks made very red with powder. On the table are several dark, bell-shaped bottles: he pours wine from one of them – except that he is already drunk and he spills some of it on the tablecloth. Both of the women laugh at the sight. They have no shirts on under their tightly laced robes, so they expose their cleavage to his view. He is wearing a thin sword, although he does not look as if he would know what to do with it even if he were sober.
I cross a passageway, which leads from a backstreet on my left to the inn yard on my right. Many people are talking on the other side of the door ahead. Opening it, I find myself in a lofty panelled hall with high windows on both sides, and about twenty tables. Six or seven three-cornered hats have been hung on a line of hooks to my left. There are silver-haired men sitting at one table, discussi
ng something earnestly with glass goblets of wine in front of them. Two men seated together have white sticks in their mouths. These sticks have small bowls at the end, from which wisps of smoke are rising. I sniff the air and catch the scent of a burning herb of some sort. They seem quite at ease with this fire in their faces.
‘Can I get you something, lovey?’
I turn to face the woman who has addressed me. She has a white apron and a linen bonnet. There is a pile of metal plates in her hands.
‘No. I’m waiting to meet someone.’
‘Well and good,’ she replies, moving away. ‘Let me know when you’re ready.’
I walk around the hall. In the far right corner there are four women drinking some colourless liquid and laughing a lot. A man is reading a book at the table in the far left corner, using round eye-windows like those worn by the canon precentor, except these have arms that fasten them to his ears. The woman with him is drinking from a glass in little sips and watching the goings-on. In the space between these two groups, in front of an elaborate painted-stone fireplace where a good pile of logs is burning, is a table occupied by four people. They must be respectable folk, I think, as everyone else has allowed them to occupy the best space in front of the fire. On the right is a woman wearing a crimson tunic and a three-cornered hat. She has long black hair, looks about thirty and is wearing white gloves. Over these gloves are four gold rings, two on each hand, containing four different-coloured jewels. Her companions are men of various ages: a silver-haired young man with a very gaunt face; an older man with brown hair and a paunch that wants to explode from his tightly fastened tunic; and a blue-eyed, freckled, red-headed lad of about twenty. The men are not talking to each other but taking it in turns to lay down small pieces of vellum, which have red and black emblems on them. Suddenly they start laughing and pointing, the gaunt-faced man waving one of the pieces of vellum in the air triumphantly. Silver coins are shoved across the table towards him. I turn, and make my way back towards the door.
As I am crossing the hall I catch the eye of the serving woman who called me ‘lovey’. She nods back in the direction of the game players. ‘Clara’s calling you.’
‘Who?’
‘Clara Coldstream. Better known as Clara Cold Dreams. I’d not turn my back on her, if I were you.’
I look round and see the four card players looking at me. I return to their table.
‘You’re new in town, aren’t you?’ asks the woman. Her two older companions take a taper from a man at a neighbouring table and set light to their white sticks with herb-filled bowls.
‘I am,’ I reply.
‘What’s your name?’
‘John of Wrayment.’
‘Well, Johnno. Why don’t you sit down? Peter here will sit this one out so you can join us.’
She points to an unused stool at a nearby table. I draw it closer and sit down.
‘What’ll you be having, gin or brandy?’
I do not know either of these things. I prefer the word brandy, so I ask for that.
‘The good stuff,’ says Clara to her companions. They sycophantically nod at her and smile.
‘A man of taste and discernment,’ says the man with the paunch, puffing on his white stick.
‘As you can see by his clothes,’ says the gaunt-faced man. There is laughter all around the table.
‘They are not mine,’ I say, as Clara leans forward and pinches the fabric of my sleeve, examining it.
The serving woman is suddenly at my side.
‘Pint of each, Meg, my dear, if you please,’ says Clara, letting go of my sleeve.
‘So, what brings you to Exeter, Johnno?’
‘I’ve come back here to do good works. I need to save my soul.’
Clara snorts. ‘You don’t sound like much of a cards man, neither in what you say nor in your way of saying it.’
‘What?’
‘Playing cards, dear. You know.’ She lifts up a pile of the pieces of vellum they were playing with earlier. ‘These things. Recognise them?’
‘I am sorry, I’ve been travelling . . .’
‘Where did you say you’re from?’
‘Moreton.’
‘And they all speak like you, do they, in Moreton?’ This causes a trickle of mirth around the table.
‘They did once,’ I reply.
‘And how long ago was that? The Middle Ages?’
Everyone laughs. I smile nervously, having no idea what she means.
Meg puts two silver jugs down on the table. They are polished so much I can see my reflection in the metal. Clara fills a glass with a dark-brown liquid and pushes it towards me. I take it, sniff it, and realise it is strong, even more so than wine. Then, aware of being watched, I drink it, pouring it down my neck as if it was ale. It burns my throat, and I gasp.
‘Well, at least he can drink,’ Clara says to the others. ‘So, are you going to play or what?’
Only slowly does it dawn on me that they expect me to play the gambling game with them. I shake my head. ‘Truth be told, I’m unsure of the rules.’
She refills my glass with a weary expression. ‘It’s whist, dumbcluck. Everyone knows whist. Some people call it trumps.’ She picks up the cards, and holds them at the ready. ‘A shilling, if you please.’
I feel the brandy warming my body, making me bold, and I raise my glass a second time, and down it. ‘I’ve no money,’ I say, gasping again, setting the glass back on the table.
Clara slams the cards down. ‘Then what the bloody hell did you just sit down for? Jesus! What’ve you got? That coat ain’t worth tuppence.’
I look down at my clothes. I have no purse or valuables. I shrug.
‘Then how are you going to pay for your bloody drink?’
‘Me? You ordered it.’
She looks at the man with the paunch. He just grins at her. She turns back to me.
‘Your ring,’ she says, looking at my right hand.
‘He’s got a knife and all,’ says the gaunt-looking man, nodding to my belt.
‘Not any more he hasn’t,’ says the freckled lad, leaning forward and drawing my eating knife from its scabbard.
I sense the coldness of a hatred of strangers. ‘Give it back.’
Clara holds out her hand and takes the knife from the lad. ‘You don’t seem to catch on, Johnno. No one sits down at a table with me, and gets a bloody drink out of me for nothing. So now if you haven’t got any money, you’re gonna have to give me your ring. Dick, hold his arms while I make myself clear.’
The freckled lad gets up and grabs my left hand, bending my arm behind the back of my chair. I do not stop him, only going so far as to draw my right hand close to my chest. I don’t suppose this youth has done more than rough up a few drunken sots. But Clara deserves her nickname. Only now, as she pushes the knife in my face, does she smile.
It is like watching a tree being struck by lightning.
Three days ago I woke in a barn and was facing a blade before noon. Today the same thing has happened. But three days ago I was facing Baldwin Fulford.
‘Why are you smirking?’ she asks.
‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’
‘Yeah, yeah, dearie. Give me the ring.’
I wait for my moment, holding her gaze, then spring to my left, swinging behind the freckled lad, using his firm grip on my left arm to turn him and push him backwards into Clara. The two of them fall into the table, sending the silver jugs of drink and the glasses flying. The boy lets go of my arm to break his fall. Furious, he comes at me again. But I step to one side and pick up the chair on which I was sitting, holding it out before me in defence.
The whole room is suddenly silent. Clara is still holding the knife. The man with the paunch looks from her to me and back again, and takes the white stick out of his mouth.
I watch their eyes for any indication of movement behind me. ‘I did not fight for the king in France only to be taken advantage of by a clutch of drunken
cheats, whose church is an inn and whose communion wine this strong drink.’ I look from face to face. ‘As I was telling you, I came into the city to do good deeds. So, I am going to do a good deed now. I am going to leave you all in peace. Keep the knife in payment for the brandy.’
I back away, and glance again over my shoulder, and carry on backing away until I am halfway across the hall. People scrape their chairs on the flagstones as they move out of my path. No one says anything. Had this been a squabble in my own time, they would have resumed talking by now. The moment would have been over. But these people stay silent, as if the final part of this drama is yet to be played out.
‘Get out, quickly. Go,’ says the serving woman, beneath her breath.
I hear someone else nearby say in a low voice, ‘Some have ended up in the river with their throats slit for less.’
I put the chair down and walk out of the hall. Outside, I weave in and out of the long-coated pedestrians and make my way briskly to the water conduit at the bottom of the High Street, where there is a small crowd of people waiting to fill large black-leather jugs and wooden pails. The sun has gone behind the clouds, and the air has turned colder. I hurry down Fore Street, then take a right turn towards the priory of Saint Nicholas, passing not far from where Richard the blacksmith used to live. The houses and lanes here are totally unfamiliar. The priory church has gone. Disorientated, I take a muddy path but it is a dead end. I retrace my steps and head down another lane, turn a corner, and find myself in another small passage beneath an old sandstone-fronted house. My head swirling, I feel I am walking through a narrow gorge.
