D. Wilson: The First Horseman

‘This way,’ Lizzie said, taking my arm. We turned to the right and followed the lane until we were confronted by the high stone wall of Winchester Palace. Sometimes my guide nodded to or exchanged a word with passers-by — members of her own close-knit community. At one point a woman leaning from an upper casement called out, ‘Who’s your new darling, Liz?’ and Lizzie stuck out her tongue by way of reply. After we had passed the palace gatehouse, where she paused to flirt with the guard, my guide steered me off the lane and on to a track, barely distinguishable under the melting snow, which crossed the bishop’s parkland. A few more paces and she stopped.

‘There, do you see it?’

I scanned the empty expanse of white, dotted with trees.

‘Where am I supposed to be looking?’

‘Just here, in front of us.’

The ground closest to us was uneven, broken by a series of little mounds. There was nothing to attract attention.

I shook my head. ‘I can’t see…’

‘Exactly. Just an unremarkable stretch of land, generously donated by His Grace, the Bishop of Winchester. It’s called the Unmarried Women’s Graveyard. You know, of course, what “unmarried women” means. This is where we end up — where I will end up — buried in unconsecrated ground, an unrepentant sinner not worthy of Christian burial. The bishop takes our rents. His priests use our services. But at the end the Church turns its back on us. We enter purgatory with no shriving, no passing bell, no sacrament. We can go to hell for all the Church cares.’

There was a long silence. I stared at the bleak, unmarked hummocks and thought of my Jane’s memorial in the Berentine Chantry in St John Zachary with its carved, fresh-painted effigy; the tomb where I had often imagined myself being laid beside her — together again and supported by the obits of the priest performed every year’s mind. But for this girl-woman beside me no such comfort. It had never occurred to me before that respectability was just as much a barrier in whatever lay beyond death as it was in the London and Southwark of the living. We had begun our walk back to St Swithun’s House before I said, ‘At least you have one churchman who seems to care.’

‘Old Ned?’

‘Yes. How did he come to be here?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he regards it as a sort of penance. He and Jed had to quit the monastery.’ She paused, and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. ‘At St Swithun’s we ask no questions and make no judgements. Anyway, he’s useful to have around.’

‘For treating the pox and carrying out abortions?’

I had not meant the words to sound judgemental but Lizzie stopped suddenly, glaring. ‘Mother of God, you spleeny, puffed-up ingrate! Ned and Jed should have left you to freeze to death. The folks here are flesh and blood, same as you. We get sick, same as you. Just because you can afford fancy physicians and barber surgeons don’t think you’re any different underneath your fine clothes.’

We completed our journey in silence.

That evening I asked for pen and paper and wrote a brief letter to the only man I could take into my confidence; a man whom I knew would provide ransom money without demur and without alarming my mother — Robert Packington. He was a prominent member of the Mercers’ Company, had been my father’s closest friend and was now a great stay to my mother in her widowhood. To me he had always been a sort of unofficial uncle, somewhat austere in demeanour but always understanding and encouraging. Without disclosing my whereabouts, I asked him to entrust to the bearer a sum of money that, I calculated, should more than compensate everyone at the Sign of St Swithun for my board and lodging. I showed it to Ned Longbourne for his approval and he arranged for Jed to deliver it and return with the cash.

So it was that after spending six days in the Southwark Stews I returned to Goldsmith’s Row and respectability — and to the inevitable inquisition that, I knew, would await me.

I had a tub of hot water brought to my chamber, washed myself thoroughly and changed my clothes before going to my mother’s rooms on the upper floor. I found her in the window seat with one of her women bent over her sewing. As soon as she saw me she jumped up, the needlework falling to the floor.

‘Tom! Oh Tom! Thank God! Your father and I have been so worried, haven’t we, my love?’ She gazed past my shoulder into the empty space beyond. ‘We have had the servants out every day scouring the City. Your father posted reward notices and alerted the constables to look for you. We distributed your portrait — the one done for your sixteenth birthday. Master Holbein made a copper engraving. No one saw you anywhere. You really must stop going off by yourself without telling anyone. If you must go a-riding take one of the servants. What would happen here if any ill befell you? Tom, I don’t know whether to be cross or happy.’

I was saved from responding to this torrent by a familiar footfall on the stair. A moment later the tall figure of Robert Packington was framed in the doorway. He was dressed in his usual black with a simple gold chain round his neck. The square cut of his grey-streaked beard made his frown look even more formidable. With scarce a glance at me, he strode across the room, scuffing up the herbs which the servants always kept fresh-laid. He made a slight bow.

‘Isabel, how are you today? I see the prodigal has returned.’ He turned to me. ‘God be praised for our answered prayers. Someone entered the shop and told me you’d been seen. I came round straightway. You’ve been attacked, I see. I’ll send straightly for Doctor Drudgeon to examine that arm.’

‘I thank you, Robert, but there is no need. ’Tis no more than a broken collar bone — my horse stumbled — and it’s been reset by… er… a professional.’ I had not yet decided how much I would tell Robert about my adventure. I was sure he would never understand the people at the Sign of St Swithun.

‘Excuse me, Mistress.’ My mother’s woman was hovering in the doorway. ‘The horse litter is here at the door from Mistress Galloway’s.’

‘Mistress Galloway?’ My mother shook her head, trying to remember.

‘Aye, Mistress, her time is nearly here and you promised to call.’

My mother rose with a sigh. ‘Ah yes. Now, Tom, you’re not to set foot outside the house till I return. Stay and tell your father everything. Everything, mind! You understand?’

When she had left, Robert drew a joined stool up to the window and perched himself upon it. ‘I’ve told her nothing about the letter or the uncouth fellow who brought it,’ he said. ‘It would confuse her, or, I should say, increase her already growing confusion.’

‘Thank you, Robert. That was thoughtful. And thank you even more for helping me. I could not leave my hosts without showing my appreciation. Before you leave I’ll reimburse you.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. I’m just happy that I was there for you to turn to. Now, tell me what happened.’

‘I really remember little about it. Poor Dickon stumbled in the icy ruts and I had a bad fall. I was unconscious a long time. Fortunately some kind folk found me and nursed me back to health.’

Robert held me in an unblinking gaze. ‘And where did all this happen?’

With a great effort I managed not to look away. ‘Somewhere south of the river. As I say, it’s all a blur in my mind.’

‘Hmm.’ Robert regarded me with a quizzically raised eyebrow. ‘Last week I was offered six bales of fine silk by a Spanish merchant who claimed to have imported them direct from the Orient. The price was good but I turned it down. Something about the man did not ring true. Later, news arrived that a Venetian merchantman had been waylaid by pirates off Coruna and despoiled of a cargo of silks. As I grow older I find my first impressions are usually reliable.’