by Karen Brooks
Melancholy unsettled my brief happiness the way the wind snapped the pennants above the Tower looming to my right. Clouds lumbered towards the battlements from the east, foretokening yet another late autumn storm. In the time it had taken us to cross the river the wind had become stronger, its bitter bite stirring white caps on the water. There would be wild weather tonight, and other ships and barges on the river were being battened down in preparation.
‘If my lady is awaiting an invitation, one will not be forthcoming from this quarter.’ Caleb used the voice he usually reserved for the stage, catapulting me out of my reverie.
The boatman murmured something under his breath. I was sure I heard ‘popinjay’, and bit back a wry smile. It was an apt description. In his particoloured hose, peascod-bellied doublet, polished buskins and marten-lined cloak to keep the chill at bay, Caleb Hollis was a picture of sartorial splendour. The debts he incurred to maintain such style he saw as a matter of necessity rather than something to concern him. I admired the colourful picture he presented, even as his mouth formed a moue that would have done Angela proud. Yesterday had been Queen’s Day, when Her Majesty’s accession to the throne was commemorated, and the annual tournament, with its tilts and other entertainments, took precedence, postponing the opening of Caleb’s play until today. Concern that patrons would still be recovering from the previous day’s revelries and unlikely to attend proved unfounded, as the courtyard of the inn was crowded. After the play finished, and despite the consternation its themes caused, the troupe had been called back to the makeshift stage not twice but three times to resounding applause and stamping feet before the place emptied of all but the excited players, friends and hangers-on. Even so, Caleb forwent his moment of glory in order to keep his promise to my father. Ignoring my insistence that he stay and enjoy the praise due to him as both playwright and leading actor, he insisted upon seeing Angela and me across the river to Wool Quay.
‘I’ll be back anon,’ he’d replied to the entreaties of the troupe’s book holder, his gaze lingering on the tankard of foaming beer being offered. ‘Please, crave his lordship’s pardon.’
The crush for watercraft at the busy docks at the Inn of Battle Abbey made me grateful for Caleb’s presence. Able to hail the boatman with ease and assert himself so our passage was prioritised above others who also waited to cross, he ensured we were seated, warm and heading back to London before anyone realised their rights had been charmingly usurped. Shushing my protests that we were no more important than anyone else, Caleb gave an impudent flash of his dimples and, as we pushed away from Southwark’s busy banks, begged us to review the play and his part. Though I had some reservations regarding the disputatious content and the potential it had for attracting undesirable attention from the authorities, who were always quick to pounce on those who dared to criticise the Queen and her council, it was no hardship. Caleb was among the most talented of those currently treading the boards and his reputation as a gifted playwright — albeit one with a knack for flying close to the wind — was becoming firmly established. Praise was the least I could offer him. Of all those I shared my home with, it was Caleb who most behaved as though the years I’d been gone were but the bat of an owlet’s wing. It was he who picked up our friendship, developed over the many seasons he’d lodged within our home, where it had left off, and without the conditions attached to my other bonds. Indeed, I owed Caleb a great deal and hoped one day to repay him.
Still standing in the wherry, I continued to moss-gather, unaware of Caleb glaring at me until he waggled the fingers of his already outstretched arm and snapped them before my face.
‘Out!’ he said curtly. ‘Or do you intend to keep us waiting for what remains of the day?’
I flinched at the force of his words, and almost fell back into the boat. Caleb’s hand shot out and prevented a tumble.
‘Mistress, forgive me,’ he said quickly, shocked by my reaction.
Simultaneously surprised and embarrassed by my weakness, I quickly recovered and offered a small grin.
‘Tis naught, Caleb. Truly. Only you startled me.’ Before he could respond, I gathered my skirts, the burden of my Spanish farthingale and the yards of fabric sitting over it — never mind the pattens I was forced to don to protect my pumps from the feculence of the streets, Southwark’s being even worse than London’s — and levered myself onto the rock with all the refinement of a seagull. Disembarking was more a matter of strategy than grace, and I might well have fallen on my hindquarters were it not for Caleb’s firm hold. As it was, swaying precariously before I found purchase, I chose my dignity instead — something I’d thought forever lost to me.
‘God give you good evening,’ I said to the boatman and placed a coin in his gnarled hand as I stepped onto the sand.
The boatman displayed what remained of his brown teeth. ‘May God save you and prosper you, mistress,’ he said, pocketing the coin and coiling the rope he still held tightly. ‘I’d not be loitering if I were you,’ he added, indicating the sky. ‘You neither, sir,’ he said pointedly to Caleb.
Offering an arm to Angela, Caleb ignored the wherryman and we made our way across the pungent slurry. Workers operating a crane upon a nearby ship paused to watch. We must have presented an odd sight — me in my widow’s garb, Caleb pretty as a peacock, and Angela, my mother’s companion and my chaperone for the day, who was plainly but sensibly dressed and needed both of us to steady her. A surly shout ensured activity on the ship resumed. As if responding to the order, we crossed the final section of shale and broken shells quickly and scurried up the steps, past the dock and the warehouses lining this part of the river, towards the houses and the network of lanes and snickets.
‘For all that London is my mistress, I care little for her perfume,’ muttered Caleb, screwing up his nose.
The city glowed softly in the fading light. There was something about sunset that, like dawn, changed the filthy streets of London into an altogether different place. The approaching storm threw a shimmering veil over the churches and shingle-roofed houses. If you held your breath and pretended the chimneys and forges gave up heavenly clouds instead of choking miasmas, and closed your nostrils so the pungent streets became instead bowers of dewy blooms, then London and the churning wide waters of the Thames could be whatever you wanted them to be. At least, that’s what Papa used to say. Once I’d thought never to wander its cobbled alleys again, and thus every hearth’s smoky billow, every stinking carcass hanging from a rusting hook, every ring of a hammer, every grubby child, toothless slattern or blue-smocked apprentice and every step upon its mostly crowded and fetid lanes drew from me only gratitude; a new appreciation of the place I’d grown up in and to which, God be praised, I’d been returned.
Earlier that day, as Angela and I had made our way over London Bridge, I’d felt the same. I’d persuaded her we should walk to Southwark and Lewes Inn, where Caleb’s play was being performed, claiming I wished to see the sights. In truth, cowardice had also been a factor. The route I’d chosen meant I was less likely to encounter folk I knew — one particularly — especially since I’d selected a time when the stalls along Little Eastcheap would be so crowded the passing of two women would go unnoticed. And I’d been correct. My day thus far had passed in a fanciful haze, offering an ease I’d not felt for a long time. I could almost forget the recent past and the dolorous present, and appreciate the city’s glories as if they were new to me.
Only God, my Lord and Saviour, knew how much I was akin to the prodigal son, and how great a wastrel. All that was needed for my parable to be complete was for my father to embrace me. God knew, such an act was beyond my mother.
Pausing near Custom House, at the entrance to Water Lane, we said our farewells. Caleb was to quit our sight and, for the first time in over two years, I prepared to walk among those I had once called neighbours and who, I was certain, now waited to judge me. A thousand birds took wing in my chest. Sensing my mood, Caleb placed Angela’s hand firmly upon my
arm and held it there.
‘Hold your lovely head high, Mallory. You’ve naught to be ashamed of and much to arouse pity.’ Though he gestured to my ebony garb, he was wrong. I was a sinner of the worst kind.
‘I can remain by your side if you wish,’ he whispered, leaning so close his whiskers brushed my cheek, ‘but feel you should strengthen that backbone instead of allowing it to turn to eel jelly.’
‘Sirrah!’ exclaimed Angela, her dark eyes flashing, her plump cheeks turning crimson. ‘You forget your place.’
‘Indeed, Angela,’ I reassured her, placing my hand over hers, ‘he remembers it.’
Beneath Caleb’s words lay deep concern, and I knew he meant to remind me of the person I once was, a person not inclined to fret over others’ imaginings or to stand trembling before friends and strangers, but rather one who viewed the world as a dish created for my delectation and thus to be savoured.
With an attempt at a careless ‘See you anon’, I spun away with a brittle laugh. Caleb, with a flourish of his cap and a deep bow, honoured my pretence and left. I didn’t begrudge him his celebrations, but dear Lord, I wished he’d stayed. His departure forced me to rally what strength I possessed. I sent a swift prayer heavenward.
‘Let us get home,’ I urged Angela, my throat tight, my thoughts flurried.
We continued along the lane, dodging the urchins chasing each other and any poor stray cat that crossed their path. A couple of gentlemen on horseback rode past, and a group of apprentices leered outside a small alehouse, tankards in hand, nudging and whispering. So little had changed. More people, more noise, more grime. Yet I feared what this suggested. How could so little have altered when I had undergone the greatest of transformations?
We reached the main thoroughfare of Thames Street and its canny vendors, waiting till last light and the distracted air of those travelling home, who tried to tempt us with stale bread, strings of shrunken onions, panniers of warm smelly oysters, cold soggy pies and other unpalatable fare they’d failed to sell during the day. Angela shooed them away with a gaze worthy of Medusa, while I pretended not to see them. It hurt to manufacture an indifference I didn’t feel. Times were always hard for those who relied on what came from the land and sea for their keep, especially within the city walls.
Up ahead, a pack of dogs barked as a butcher unhooked the gutted pig strung up outside his premises, a swarm of flies lifting from the grey flesh as he hoisted it over his shoulder and levelled kicks and curses at the hounds. Nearby, a flower seller chatted to an old sailor with a wooden stump where his left leg should be. We entered an area I’d once walked with confidence and I stayed close to Angela, who’d begun to hum the ditty drifting from a nearby tavern.
A wider thoroughfare than some, Harp Lane was lined with two- and three-storey houses, many with shops at street level, all with upper storeys canting towards each other over the lane. They were like old friends, intent on sharing the secrets of those within.
For all that much was unchanged, there were strange faces, too. People constantly drifted in and out of the city, but here also were the lingering effects of the plague, and of the earthquake that had shaken the city earlier in the year and sent Londoners scattering into the countryside.
Just as these thoughts entered my mind, Master Swithin Hattycliffe, weaver and local councillor, stepped outside his shop, hands upon his bulging stomach, his face upturned to the darkening skies. It had been a long time since we’d last encountered each other. Lost in his study of the oncoming clouds, he failed to see me. I hesitated just a second, then screwed my courage to the sticking place.
‘God give you good evening, Master Hattycliffe.’ My voice was dry, odd.
Before he could reply, the door beside him swung open and out stepped the real reason I’d been reluctant to explore these streets: Isaac Hattycliffe, member of Gray’s Inn and my one-time betrothed. He froze when he saw me.
Together, the men stared dolefully. Master Swithin’s skin was pale and pitted and his eyes looked oily in the twilight. His son’s gaze was like iron — cold, hard and unforgiving. There’d been a time when I had persuaded myself Isaac was moderately handsome. He was the wealthiest man of my acquaintance and, with a law degree almost complete and a prosperous business to inherit, possessed of unlimited prospects. He was considered a good catch — one I’d rejected in a public and shameful fashion.
Unable to speak, I nodded in his direction, trying ineffectually to impart so much with such a simple gesture. What could I say? I’d not only broken his heart but, worse, made him appear a buffoon. I was sorry for that, but dear Lord forgive me, I was not sorry we hadn’t wed.
Isaac’s lips thinned before he slowly and deliberately turned and walked back into the shop, slamming the door with such force it trembled in its wooden frame. At the sound, activity in the lane momentarily ceased; the chatter stopped and the flames of the braziers and the lamps dimmed. Eyes that had previously failed to notice my presence fastened upon me like gimlets, including those of the dog guarding the stoop of the house next door. A wave of whispers rose and fell. Master Swithin folded his arms and stared, a smirk tugging his mouth. I stumbled. Regaining my composure, I kept my chin up and, as we continued on our way, only the clop of my pattens and the swish of Angela’s cloak could be heard.
Until a voice that once murmured ridiculous promises in my ear cried from a window above, echoing over the street, ‘Lock up your sons! Mistress Blight is back among us.’
There were gasps followed by vicious and prolonged cackles. The looks became bolder, more appraising. Catcalls and taunts followed. Someone spat. Frigid cold then blazing heat replaced the blood in my veins. My vision blurred as tears began to well. I wanted to run, to be swallowed by the growing shadows. If it hadn’t been for Angela’s hold upon my arm, her muttered prayers, I think I would have bolted. I don’t recall our next steps, but I gradually became aware the jests and attention had ceased and the lane’s activity resumed. There was singsong cheer from the ale-house, the screech of an alley cat and the caw of ravens winging their way home. My breathing steadied; my heart did not. This was guilt unassuaged — it would ensure I was punished over and over for my sins.
‘Ignore that bastardo, Hattycliffe,’ said Angela softly. ‘He is nothing more than a, what is it you say? A roaring boy — and all who live here know it.’
I hesitated a second before responding, determined the wobble of my limbs would not infect my voice. ‘A coward and a bully he may be, but there’s many would argue my actions created him — Mamma among them.’
Mistress Blight. Dear God, is that how they see me?
We walked the rest of the way home without exchanging another word, aware of the gossip that would no doubt swell in our wake. Relief swept my body as the house came into view. I was a soldier returning from war, longing for the safety of those walls, even though the harbour they represented was only temporary.
On the corner of Harp Lane and Tower Street, our house was a fine three-storey building with mullioned glass in all the windows and two parlours inside, all surrounded by a stone wall. The entrance was on Harp Lane, while access to father’s shop was on Tower Street. His workshop was at the rear, separated from the main house by a small yard complete with chickens and a greedy cow. Just before the intersection with Tower Street there was a big old creaking gate, partially hidden by a huge elm tree. Mainly used by tradespeople and servants, it had always been my preferred entrance and exit.
Once inside, I would pay my respects to Papa, to my lady mother, and then lock myself in my room and never venture out again … This outing had been a mistake, a terrible, wretched mistake. I should never have allowed myself to be persuaded. The play, for all its glory, was not worth it. Damn Caleb … and damn Papa for his acquiescence.
Just as I opened the gate, it was wrenched backwards. In the gap, a grime-streaked face with large eyes appeared. It was my father’s youngest apprentice, Dickon. Upon seeing me, he started, his neck and cheeks reddeni
ng.
‘M … M … Mistress Mallory. I … I … I was just coming to find you.’
‘What is it, Dickon?’ I asked and, casting etiquette aside, squeezed past him.
Leaving Angela to shut the gate, Dickon followed me then stopped, studying his feet, scraping them back and forth in the dirt, hands clasped behind his back, his blue shirt covered by his leather apron. Taken on by my father after I left, Dickon had heard the prate about his master’s daughter and didn’t know what to think when the subject of that tattle manifested as a living, breathing being. He had avoided me since I’d been home. Now he had no choice.
He swallowed a few times. ‘It’s your pa. He needs you, mistress.’
My heart gambolled in my chest. At last.
He locked eyes with me. He had lovely brown eyes, like our spaniels.
‘Thank you, Dickon.’
A long, low rumble of thunder sounded. As one, we glanced towards the heavens. The chickens squawked and the cat, Latch, scurried along the branch of the elm, leaping onto the rear wall. The dense, dark smell of moisture clung to every surface.
‘M … Mistress, I feel I should tell you —’ Dickon paused and gulped, his head swivelling to follow the cat. ‘The master’s not alone. There is a stranger with him.’
I turned towards the workshop. Light flickered through the closed shutters, smoke billowed from the chimney. ‘A stranger? Who?’
