Kate Sedley: The Dance of Death

At the end of half an hour, tired, sweating profusely and with my temper in shreds, I had failed to locate Philip and his second-hand clothes stall. My attempts to question other stallholders as to his whereabouts had met either with blank stares or impatient waves of the hand, indicating that I should be off about my own business and not wasting honest men’s time with foolish questions.

‘What? What d’you say? Can’t ’ear you!’

I repeated my question.

‘Oo? Oo’d you say? Oi! You there! Stop ’andling them goods if you ain’t buyin’. Thievin’ baggage! I knows your sort! Sorry!’ This last to me with a desperate shrug of the shoulders. ‘Lamprey? ‘’Aven’t seen ’im fer a sennight, maybe longer. Where? Where’d I see ’im? No, I ain’t got no white soap, mistress. It’s Bristol grey or nothing.’

Frustrated, fuming and out of sorts with the entire human race, I finally decided that, for some reason or another, Philip was not working that day, so, apostrophizing him as a lazy bastard, I quit the Leadenhall and made my way to the one-roomed daub and wattle cottage he and his wife shared in a back alley of Cornhill. I recognized it immediately, in spite of not having visited the Lampreys for some time, but as I approached, I experienced a sudden premonition that all was not well. The door stood slightly ajar, but there was nothing in that. Jeanne was the friendliest of souls and kept open house for her neighbours, yet I had a sense of the place being empty. There was no smoke issuing from the hole in the roof, no indication of any movement within, no singing, none of the domestic busyness I always associated with Philip’s young and pretty wife.

Uneasily, I rapped loudly on the door. There was no answer, so I knocked again. And again. Nothing happened. Cautiously, I pushed it wider and went in.

There was no one there, nor had there been for several weeks, I guessed. The ashes on the hearth were cold, almost dust. The pot hanging over it from its rusty hook was thickly coated inside with the remains of what had probably once been a stew, but was now quarter of an inch deep in mould and alive with maggots. The bile rose in my throat as I recoiled from the nauseating sight. The bed, pushed against one wall, had been stripped of bedding, and fleas chased one another merrily across the straw mattress; the curtain hanging at the single window showed signs of mildew. Everything was in a state of neglect, having been abandoned where it lay. I wondered what in heaven’s name could have caused Jeanne and Philip to leave their home to the dirt and the rats, one of which had emerged from its hole and was sitting brazenly in the middle of the floor, scratching for crumbs of rotting food among the stale rushes. I kicked out at it with my foot, but was ignored.

I heard a noise behind me and swung round, my hand going to the haft of my meat knife, which was stuck in my belt. I hadn’t brought my cudgel, not thinking I should need it. And nor did I. The woman who stood in the doorway, regarding me with round, suspicious eyes, was elderly with furrowed cheeks and strands of wispy grey hair escaping from beneath her cap. When she spoke, I could see that she was missing a number of teeth.

‘Who are you? What d’you want?’

‘I’m looking for Jeanne and Philip Lamprey,’ I said, my hand dropping back to my side. ‘I’m a friend.’

‘Ho! A friend, is it?’ She made no attempt to step beyond the threshold. ‘Not so much a friend you know what’s come to them, then. I’ll tell you to your head, there ain’t nothin’ t’ steal in here, master. Anything worth takin’ has been took since ’e went, and that’s more ’n a month gone. Them around here don’ let good stuff go t’ waste. An’ why should they?’ she added belligerently. ‘Life’s hard. You gotta snatch what comes your way.’

‘I don’t want to steal anything,’ I retorted angrily. ‘I told you, I’m the Lampreys’ friend. I live in Bristol and recently I’ve been abroad — Scotland — so I haven’t been able to see Master and Mistress Lamprey for some while. Where are they? What’s become of them?’

The woman gnashed her gums together and subjected me to another hard stare, but then she seemed to accept my story. It was a comfort to know that at least I didn’t look like a villain and could pass for an honest man.

‘She died in childbirth, her and the child — oh, back in August ’t would be, round ’bout Lamastide. It were a boy, too, jus’ what they both wanted.’

‘Jeanne dead?’ I interrupted, horrified, unable for the moment to take it in. ‘ Dead? ’ I repeated.

‘Milk fever,’ the woman confirmed. ‘Jus’ the way my eldest girl went when she had her third. Sudden like. One minute sittin’ up talkin’ as right as you please, the next out of her wits, poor soul. And dead within three days.’

‘Oh dear God,’ I groaned. ‘And what of Philip? He thought the world of her.’

‘Aye, he took it hard. Didn’t leave the cottage for weeks after she and the babe were buried. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep — well, not much — didn’t work. Didn’t cry even, leastways not that I saw. Just lay in here, on that there bed, curled up, knees drawn up to his chin, not speaking. Us neighbours did our best t’ rouse him, brought him food and drink — brought him some o’ my best home-made beer and rabbit stew — but he refused t’ touch either. Don’ think he even knew it were there. Worn away to a thread he were in the end. Never had much meat on his bones t’ begin with. Then, all of a sudden, ’bout three weeks ago, he up and vanished. No one knows where. Jus’ disappeared. Took nothin’ with him that anyone could see. Nothin’ but what he stood up in. My own feelin’,’ my informant added, with a comfortable settling of her shoulders, ‘is that he’s drowned himself. Couldn’t live without her.’

Her words confirmed my own fears. I didn’t want to listen to any more. I thanked the goodwife and stumbled blindly out of the cottage and back into the general hubbub of Cornhill, feeling like a man who has been mortally wounded. What made matters worse was that I had been, albeit briefly, in London in May, and had even toyed with the idea of going to see the Lampreys, but had persuaded myself that I couldn’t spare the time. The truth was, of course, that I had been in a vile mood about my enforced journey into Scotland and been no fit company for anyone. Now, however, I blamed myself for not having overcome my ill humour. At least I would have seen my friends and known about the child.

The next thing I can remember with any clarity is standing beside the great conduit at the end of Cheapside and the beginning of the Poultry, staring around me, completely in a daze. My mind refused to function properly; all I could think of was that Jeanne and most probably Philip were dead. It felt as though a door had slammed shut, locking me away from a part of my life that I had taken for granted: two friends who were always there even if years elapsed between our meetings.

‘You all right, master?’

The voice, that of a carter who had stopped to water his horse at the conduit (forbidden by law, but what of that? To your average Englishman, rules are only made to be broken) brought me back to my senses.

‘Yes. . yes. Thank you.’

‘Well, if you say so, though you don’t look it.’ He spoke with rough sympathy, adding acutely, ‘I’d say you’ve had a nasty shock. What you need, friend, is a drink. Oh, not that stuff,’ he went on, as I cupped my hands and scooped up some water. ‘You want a cup of good ale inside your belly. Settle your guts.’ With which sage advice he mounted the box of his cart, jerked on the horse’s reins and rattled off towards West Cheap.

The man was right. I needed something to calm my nerves and shake myself back to normality. At the moment, nothing seemed real and I was aware of a general feeling of weakness, a sort of trembling in my bones that made me ashamed of myself. I was a big, strong man of thirty — along with Duke Richard I had passed that milestone three weeks back, on the second of this month of October — and here I was behaving like a sickly schoolboy. I took a deep breath, braced my shoulders and looked about me for the nearest alehouse.