Kate Sedley - The Midsummer Crown

I caught one of them by the elbow. ‘How far is it to London?’ I asked, waiting with bated breath for his answer.

‘About a mile, by my reckoning.’ He turned and looked at me. ‘I shouldn’t try making it tonight,’ he advised. ‘There’s a little inn I know of ’bout a furlong further on. I’m going t’ rack up there for the night. If you’ve any sense, you’ll do the same. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look too good.’

A mile! I knew that normally my pace was roughly two miles an hour which, at the best of times, would mean another half-hour’s walking, and even that might be too late. (Unlike Piers-Pernelle, I had no knowledge of where one might breach the walls after the gates were closed.) I stared at the speaker in dismay.

‘I have to reach London tonight,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Well, you might get there before curfew, I suppose, if you hurry. But if you’ll pardon me saying so, you don’t look like you could hurry. If you want the truth, you look like a man who’s none too steady on his feet. You’d far better come with me to this inn I told you of. I’ll give you my arm.’

I shook my head. ‘Thank you, but I must get to London.’

He gave another shrug and washed his hands of me. ‘In that case, I’ll be getting along. If you want to kill yourself. .’

A minute later, he was just a speck in the distance and I was left alone on a highway that now seemed completely deserted.

‘Look, God,’ I said desperately, ‘you’ll have to do something — and something spectacular — if you want me to save this child. I know I’ve been stupid and obtuse, ignoring or not understanding the hints you’ve given me. But let’s face it, that’s nothing new. You must realize after all these centuries that you may have made us in your own image, but you didn’t give us your mind or brain. So, if you could. .’

I never finished the sentence. My silent prayer was interrupted by the sound of hoof beats, at first in the distance but then accompanied by the sight of a rider in the saddle of a great bay mare approaching at a shocking speed. Indeed, man and beast were almost upon me before I gathered my wits sufficiently to leap into their path, clutching at the animal’s reins. With a shouted curse, the horseman swerved to avoid me and, convinced he was being attacked by footpads, would have ridden me down had he not, suddenly and by the grace of God, recognized me just at the very moment that I recognized him.

William Catesby!

‘God’s toenails!’ he fumed as the horse came to a plunging halt not a yard from me. ‘Do you want to get yourself killed, Master Chapman?’ He uttered a few choice epithets before taking a closer look at me and stopping short. ‘What’s the matter, man? You look like death.’

‘Take me up behind you,’ I begged. ‘I’ll tell you as we go.’

We made it to the Lud Gate just as darkness fell and the gate was about to be closed.

‘We’ll go first to Baynard’s Castle,’ the lawyer said, ‘and get reinforcements. We can’t tackle these she-wolves on our own.’ He hesitated before adding defiantly, ‘King Richard has moved there to be with his mother. Queen Anne is staying for the moment at Crosby’s Place.’ The die was well and truly cast then. The duke’s closest adherents were already referring to him as monarch. Catesby added, ‘Hold on tightly. Let’s go.’

But we were going nowhere. It was Midsummer Eve, the Eve of St John the Baptist. We had forgotten the Marching Watch.

Thousands of citizens had been assembling in St Paul’s churchyard since mid-afternoon, and hundreds of shops all over the city had closed early so that masters and apprentices alike could take part in the spectacle. The procession, headed by members of the twelve great livery companies were just now moving off towards Cheapside followed by the guilds in all their glory of scarlet and gold. Everywhere was light as hundred upon hundreds of cressets illumined the scene. These iron baskets at the end of long poles, each containing burning wood and coals, were carried by poor men of the city especially chosen for the occasion. Every man was given a straw hat and a painted badge (proudly worn and then stored away to show his grandchildren at some future date) and beside him walked another poor man, similarly attired, carrying a bag of coals for refuelling.

The heat and light generated by these cressets was overwhelming, but as nothing to the noise that assaulted the ears from what sounded like thousands of trumpets, pipes and drums — but were probably less than a hundred in all. It was the enthusiasm of the players that created the din. Lines of armed men guarded the processional route and the flames of bonfires leapt and warmed the crowds at every crossroad. Earlier in the day, women and children had been out in the surrounding fields picking armfuls of flowers and greenery — green birch, fennel, St John’s Wort and others — to make garlands and decorate the houses. Streamers and tapestries hung from every window of those folk who could afford them, while tables groaning with food and drink stood outside the houses of the rich, each man vying with his neighbours to outdo the rest. And in the midst of all this, the Midsummer Queens of each ward were carried shoulder-high, crowned with birch leaves.

Finally, just as it seemed that the splendour had reached its zenith, came the Mayor’s Watch with Mayor Edmund Shaa mounted on a magnificent roan, his armoured sword-bearer riding before him, two mounted attendants behind and torch-bearers on either side. The crowds exploded with excitement.

Every street, alleyway and lane appeared to be blocked with a solid mass of people, moving more slowly than the procession itself because of other diversions.

Catesby said despairingly, ‘We’ll never get through these crowds, at least, not on horseback.’ He signalled to me to dismount, then followed suit. The mare was already showing the whites of her eyes and shied nervously at a more than usually ear-splitting burst of sound. The lawyer went on, ‘You’ll have to try to get to Dowgate on foot. Meantime, I’ll lead Dorcas round the long way to Baynard’s Castle, south by Old Change and Lampard’s Hill and then turn west along Thames Street. I’ll be with you again as soon as I can. Don’t do anything foolish.’ And with that, he was gone, swallowed up by the crowds and leaving me fuming.

Don’t do anything foolish, indeed! Easy enough to say, but I was always finding myself in desperate situations thanks to my involuntary involvement in the duke’s affairs. No! Not the duke’s any more. The king’s!

I took a deep breath and began to shoulder a path through the press of hot and sweating bodies, their owners already high on the excitement of the occasion, but also starting to get high in another sense, on all the free wine and potent cuckoo-ale that was on offer. Women were becoming shrill, men raucous and both belligerent. My determined efforts to forge a way between them soon met with an aggression that threatened my safety long before I reached my destination. But there was one good thing; my anxiety for young Gideon Fitzalan seemed to have given me a renewed strength of which, an hour earlier, I would have deemed myself incapable. The result was that I was able, finally, to outstrip the crowds and turn into Bucklersbury, head south down Wallbrook and east into Candlewick Street much sooner than I had expected. And a very few moments after, the mouth of the alleyway connecting the street with Dowgate Hill yawned on my right.

I plunged along it, my heart hammering in my chest, but taking comfort from the fact that only the length of Thames Street, at the bottom of the hill, now separated me from Baynard’s Castle. I prayed fervently that Catesby had managed to get there with even less hindrance than I had encountered.