by Ann Swinfen
‘So,’ I said, ‘what is to be done now?’
‘I shall make a start on the royal grandson. Mark you, it was the second Henry who was the legislator and administrator, in between conquering most of France and fighting with his wife, his sons and his friends. His grandson was more interested in endowing churches than legislating for the secular kingdom. There are certainly other land charters concerning the granting of common lands amongst the older Henry’s documents. Your father’s memory seems credible on that score.’
‘You must not take too much time from your own work. I do not want to beggar you.’
Anthony drained the last of his ale and signalled to the tavern keeper’s wife to bring him more.
‘I have only the Sussex case at present, now that our three disputatious heirs have been taught a lesson and sent away to lick their wounds.’
The case of the three heirs had come to court earlier than expected, and the judgement had pleased none of them. The manor had gone to the one who lived close by, and the judge had divided the coin between the other two, the very solution which had been suggested to them before it went to court. However, they had now been forced to pay court costs and additional lawyers’ fees, so that they were considerably more out of pocket. Anthony and his senior were glad to be rid of them, for the dispute had dragged on altogether for nearly two years.
‘If, as you say, Henry III did little in the way of granting common land,’ I said, ‘is it worth your time to search the documents from that reign? He inherited young, did he not? How long was his reign?’
‘Fifty-six years,’ Anthony said, rolling his eyes, ‘but there are fewer documents, at least as far as I can tell.’
‘You know,’ I said slowly, ‘I am loathe to ask for help from Sir John’s lawyer, but he was supposed to have searched for the charter a year ago. If we can find him, might it not save you a great deal of time, supposing he has already made the search?’
‘But surely, if he had found the charter, you would have heard by now?’
‘If he searched at all.’
‘You are still suspicious.’
‘Truly, Anthony, I do not know what to think. If he searched and failed to find any charter, would Sir John not have told us? If he has not bothered to search at all, of course Sir John might prevaricate.’
‘There is a third possibility.’
‘Aye. That he found the charter and has concealed the fact. But why would he do that?’
‘Perhaps he is playing some double game, thinking to sell the charter to the speculators, so you have no evidence to support your claim.’
‘That would be a crime, surely? Though I am not sure what kind.’
‘Perhaps lèse-majesté, interfering with a royal decree? I am not sure myself.’
‘I wonder whether he is an honest man. I wish I knew his name. I have written to my sister and asked her to try to discover.’
‘I will make some enquiries amongst the clerks at the Rolls House. They may know whether a lawyer from Lincoln’s Inn has been showing a particular interest in royal grants of common land, dating from the reign of the early Henrys.’
He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth.
‘I hope there was indeed a charter. Some common lands are known as such by tradition, not charter.’
‘What my father told me was that the lands had been held in common from earliest times, merely by tradition, but that one of the local abbeys tried to seize control of them. The commoners appealed to the king, the king supported their claim and granted the charter to confirm their rights. That is the story people remember.’
‘If that is true, then surely it must have been Henry II, who was anxious to curb the growing power of the church.’
‘And that was why he fell out with Becket.’
‘Aye. It is unlikely to have been Henry III, who was such a friend of the church. He would have been more likely to take the part of the abbey.’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘you should not waste your time on the documents from the reign of the later Henry.’
‘At least before I do, I shall enquire whether anyone from Lincoln’s Inn has been ferreting in the same places as I have.’
The following morning, after Anthony had gone off to make enquiries of the clerks, I spoke to the gatekeeper Potter about some means of transportation to carry me from the Inn to Bucklersbury. After his initial hostility, Potter had been obsequious in his behaviour to me, hoping, I suppose, to atone for his ill manners. I did not care for his fawning any more than his rudeness, but he was the most likely person to ask.
‘Why, Master Bennington, sir, I am sure one of the Inn carriages could convey you to the City.’ He was bowing deeply and working his hands together as if he were washing.
‘I do not require the use of a carriage,’ I said – somewhat coolly, I fear. ‘I merely wish to know whether there is a local carter hereabouts who might make trips into that part of the City.’
With much fussing and prattling, he finally conceded that a local man who supplied the nearby taverns with wine from a vintner’s warehouse in Walbrook regularly drove into the City each morning and back in the afternoon with barrels destined for the taverns. I was too late to go with him today, and the next two days I would be working in the library, but I sent a message to the carter, asking whether I might travel with him on Friday. Before the end of the day, I received his reply, agreeing to take me to Bucklersbury.
When Anthony returned from the Rolls House later that day, he had something to report, though nothing very conclusive.
‘At first none of the clerks could remember any particular search for charters granting common land from the time of the early Henrys. As you might expect, the lawyers from Lincoln’s Inn are in and out of the Rolls House almost every day, as they have only to step across the road.’
‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’
‘Then one of the older fellows came in, who had been transferred to the Six Clerks Office a few months ago. It is in another part of the building. He thought there might have been such a search made some time last year, by one of the Benchers from Lincoln’s Inn. However, he did not know the lawyer’s name, nor whether the search was successful, so we are no further forward.’
‘It does sound as though that might have been Sir John’s lawyer,’ I said slowly. ‘I think you should cease your labours until I hear from Mercy, if she has been able to discover the man’s name.’
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘let us do that. Then I can go to Lincoln’s Inn and tackle the man himself. See whether he managed to trace the charter.’
‘We will both go,’ I said firmly. ‘I can manage much better now that the ground is no longer icy. Besides, on Friday I am going to see this barber surgeon, Gilbert Bolton. His elaborate jointed legs after the French fashion will be far too costly for me, but I am hopeful that he may be able to fit me with a simple wooden peg, such as sailors wear.’
‘I wonder how costly they are, these jointed legs,’ Anthony said thoughtfully. ‘I could lend you some coin.’
‘Nay, I have no wish to get into debt, though it is kind indeed of you to offer. Something simpler will do me very well. I cannot imagine how such a jointed leg would work in any case. With no nerves and muscles, how can they be made to move?’
‘Bencher Whittaker said they were jointed like marionettes, did he not? Could they be worked by strings?’
I gave a dry laugh. ‘I cannot imagine myself walking about, working my leg by strings! Nay, such fancy toys are not for me.’
When Friday came, I nearly called off my journey to Bucklersbury. I was suddenly afraid and ashamed, for I knew I should need to show my stump of a leg to this stranger and I had kept it hidden even from my family once it had healed. I hated the sight of it myself and always averted my eyes from it when I dressed. However, I made my way down to the gatehouse and the carter appeared a few minutes later. He heaved me up beside him and now there was no going back.
It
was still very early in the morning, a warm spring day. Most of Gray’s Inn Lane still runs through unspoiled country. Apart from the Inn and a few cottages and a tavern or two, it might be deep in the countryside, Gray’s being the most rural of all the Inns of Court. We drove between hedgerows alive with courting birds, who flew past within inches of our noses, carrying nesting materials – robins and blue its and blackbirds and thrushes and greenfinches – all the small familiar birds we see about Turbary Holm. Down by the river there would be gulls and swans and various ducks, but nothing like the rich life of waterfowl I was accustomed to seeing and hearing at home. And at home the treble songs of these small birds would be accompanied by that most mysterious of sounds, the boom of the butter bump, which sounds more like some deep throated musical instrument of brass than the call of a living bird. Hidden amongst the rushes of the Fen, it can send its strange cry reaching out for miles across our flat watery lands.
I found myself suddenly homesick for the call of the butter bump and the clean wide skies of the fenlands.
Instead, here we were, now skirting the lower end of Smithfield and passing through Newgate, past the prison on the right and the orphanage of Christ’s Hospital on the left. The stench of the City under a warming sun caught at my throat. Out in the peace of Gray’s Inn, with its elegant courts and the magnificent gardens, the Walks, you forget the stink and the noise of London proper. Crowds swarmed and jostled in the streets, the jettied houses leaned overhead, almost touching, so that only a narrow strip of blue sky could be seen. Flimsy market stalls narrowed the street still further, so that sometimes the carter was obliged to stop and shout at men with barrows and women with shopping baskets to get out of his way. We reached a stretch of Cheapside lined with butchers’ stalls. Carcasses of pigs and sheep dangled like hanged men, crawling with flies, and the cobbles were sticky with blood.
Behind the makeshift stalls stood the elegant houses of the rich Cheapside merchants and I wondered how they could tolerate living here, cheek by jowl with the noise and dirt. Before the war, some of the richer merchants had begun to build themselves elegant houses out beyond the western wall of the City, in amongst the homes of the aristocrats along the Strand. Others had migrated up to the clean airs of Hackney Downs. But the war had sent many of them scuttling back inside the City walls, for I suppose they felt safer within a defensible city. Yet the old walls were crumbling away, like the City gatehouses. A determined army could take London without much trouble. I was no soldier, but even I could see that.
The carter set me down in Bucklersbury, outside a large double fronted shop. A freshly painted signboard proclaimed it as the Golden Ram. He would return, the carter said, in the early afternoon, when he had loaded the barrels of wine and beer, and taken a bite at an ordinary near the vintner.
I lowered myself to the ground and watched as he drove away before I turned to the door of the shop. I could not escape now, for I could hardly stand here in the street for the hours until he returned.
The shop front was freshly white-washed. On either side of the door, windows displayed a curious array of items. Like all barber surgeons, I supposed Gilbert Bolton practised a variety of crafts, pulling teeth, cutting hair, setting bones, stitching up wounds, as well as performing amputations like my own. At the side of one window there was the red and white pole which symbolised his trade – red for blood and white for bandages – but it was small and discreet, as though he considered this the lesser part of his business. I noticed he did not gleefully display a bone-cutting saw or a huge pair of forceps, as some of the coarser of his colleagues will do. Instead there were several artificial limbs, gruesome enough in themselves, so that they almost turned my stomach. Although it was for his very skill in such devices that I had sought him out, those stranded arms and legs and hands looked like the bloody litter of a battlefield.
Curiously, there was also a clock and two automata, such as the gentry like to have to amuse their guests. I remembered seeing one at the Dillingworths’ house when I had gone there as a boy. It was a kind of doll, dressed like a gypsy, which performed a dance, twirling about and shaking a ring of wood decorated with bells, while a tune played on the musical box concealed in the base. Sir John had bought the toy in Paris when he had travelled in France as a young man.
I hitched myself forward and opened the door of the shop. It set a small bell jangling above my head as I stepped inside. The place was remarkably clean, a strong contrast to the filthy street outside, where rubbish lay in heaps, although not in front of this shop. It had a pleasant smell, of soap and fresh herbs. I was not as skilled as Mercy at picking these out, but I was sure I caught the scent of lavender and camomile. There was also something astringent, like vinegar.
There was no one to be seen, and very little in the shop, apart from a few items like those in the windows, laid out on a low table. There were some comfortable chairs, a bookcase, and a side table holding several wine flagons and glasses. It looked, in fact, more like a parlour or a gentleman’s study than a shop. Except, of course, for those artificial limbs.
I heard footsteps clattering down stairs from the upper floor, where I supposed the proprietor lived, and a man stepped through a door at the far end of the shop. He was perhaps about forty years of age, wiry and quick, with bright, intelligent eyes and a shock of red hair which stood up on end, as though he was in the habit of running his fingers through it.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, bounding toward me like an eager dog, ‘I am sorry to keep you waiting.’ He bowed and gave a charming smile. ‘Gilbert Bolton at your service. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’
‘Tom Bennington,’ I said, bowing in my turn. ‘I am a student at Gray’s Inn. I have been absent for seven years, but have returned to take up my studies again.’
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding briskly at the empty leg of my breeches. ‘You have been at the war?’
It was the natural assumption that everyone made.
‘Nay, a double injury, then gangrene.’
‘And you would like me to see what I can do for you.’
‘If you please.’
His eyes gleamed. It almost seemed that he wanted to rub his hands with pleasure.
‘Please take a seat, Master Bennington,’ he gestured towards one of the comfortable chairs. ‘Let us discuss what has been done so far and how I can help you. I see that you have become quite accustomed to using crutches. When was the amputation carried out?’
I lowered myself into the chair, realising that it was higher off the ground than usual, making it easier for a crippled man to manage. I laid my crutches down beside it.
‘I was injured in the spring of last year, then again in the same place on my leg, before it had fully healed. That would have been in the early summer.’
He sat down opposite me, watching me keenly. He nodded.
‘And when did the gangrene set in? Was the wound not cleaned properly?’
‘It was. I have no one to blame but myself.’ I found I could speak easily to this man, who seemed to treat my maiming in such a matter of fact way.
‘We had many family troubles at the time. My father had gone to court, then was fined and imprisoned in gaol until the fine was paid. There were . . . other troubles last summer as well. I rode to Lincoln to pay the fine and gain his release. The wound broke open again and what with the ride and the dirt of the journey . . . well, after I reached home, it became infected and then the gangrene set in.’
He nodded, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
‘I hope your father was recovered.’
‘Nay,’ I said bitterly. ‘He was already dead of gaol fever.’
He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
‘So, it became necessary to amputate. You made the wise decision.’
I smiled sadly. ‘It was not my decision. I was delirious by then. My family sent for a surgeon from Peterborough. He amputated and cauterised the stump.’
To my surprise, he slammed his fist on the table. ‘When will they learn! They should not cauterise! The wound may become infected or the patient may die of shock. Nowadays we can use much gentler methods, by applying a paste of egg, oil of roses and turpentine. The wound heals much more quickly and there is far less pain or risk of fever. Yet these fools cling to Galen and his followers as though his methods were handed down on tablets of stone.’
I was slightly shocked by this, for the reference sounded almost like blasphemy. And the man’s passion was extraordinary.
‘Forgive me, Master Bennington,’ he said, running his fingers up through his hair and making it stand even more on end. ‘I cannot control my temper when I hear of such practices, which should have been banned a hundred years ago. That was when the new method was first employed by the great Ambroise Paré. Yet I have seen with my own eyes men die in agony, not from the amputation but from cauterisation. Still, that is in the past for you. Fortunately you have survived.’
I gave him a twisted smile. ‘I have survived. A maimed and despicable half man.’
‘Now that is pure folly,’ he said briskly, ‘and no way to think of yourself. The real man lies here.’ He struck himself in the chest. ‘And here.’ He tapped his head. ‘If we employ our brains and our courage, then we are men. A leg is no more than an instrument allowing us to strut about on the surface of the world. And like any other instrument, if it is damaged, we must repair it. Allow me to show you what I mean.’
He got up and darted across to the book case. Laying a large book, somewhat battered and well thumbed, on a table next to my chair, he turned over the pages until he found what he was searching for.
‘Look at this. Did you ever see anything more beautiful or more ingenious?’
