Kate Sedley - Death and the Chapman

At Marlowe’s Quay, an eel ship had just docked, and the housewives were already gathering with their money and baskets. A big man with a broken nose and huddled in a good wool cloak against the rawness of the morning was just going aboard, while the women stamped their feet and blew on fingers blue with cold.

‘Who’s he?’ I asked my neighbour.

She gave me a pitying look, sensing at once that I was not a Londoner.

‘That’s the water-bailiff, of course. He goes through the catch and throws overboard any undersized or red eels he might discover. After that, it’s his job to supervise the weighers, to make sure we get good measure.‘ She eyed me curiously. ‘You waiting to buy?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m a chapman. I need laces and threads and silks for you women to fritter your money away on.’

My companion snorted. ‘Small chance of that, with prices rising the way they are. Mind you, things’ll get better now that Edward’s on the throne again, God bless him!’

I discovered that the Londoners regarded Edward of Rouen as peculiarly their own King. Big, strong and handsome, he spent freely among them, increasing the trade and prosperity of the city. And last spring he had done the impossible, by reaching his capital from the North without the loss of a single man.

I moved on, threading my way in and out of riverside alleyways and narrow lanes whose names were as yet unknown to me. The woman had told me that I needed Galley Quay, nearest the Tower, and sure enough, when I finally got there, I found a Venetian galley unloading bales of silk and velvet, barrels of spices and sweetmeats, iron- bound chests of brooches and rings. Many of the goods were too costly for hawking in the streets, but I bought a remnant of damask, enough to make a dress, and a few cheaper items of jewellery. There were also some phials of perfume and scented oil, which I added to the other wares still in my pack. It was while I was paying for my purchases that I noticed the pungent smell of rotting flesh, borne upriver from beyond the walls, and learned that it came from the decaying corpses of executed pirates, whose bodies were left until three tides had washed over them, between Wapping and St Katherine’s Wharf.

I wandered back the way I had come, still dazed by everything I saw; the great cranes along the wharfsides, busily unloading spices and oranges from Genoa or cargoes of Normandy apples and fine Caen stone. The roads were jammed with traffic, carts, drays and carriages forcing a passage between wandering pedestrians; chapmen, such as myself, itinerant friars, piemen, sailors, messenger boys. The noise was deafening; people cursing and shouting; cries of ’Beef ribs! Steaming hot!‘ ‘Clean rushes!’ ‘Good sheep’s brains!’ ‘Apples and pears! Every one ripe!’ Agitators haranguing the crowds; boatmen, the roughest and toughest of all the Londoners, brawling with one another over prospective clients; the continuous jangling of the bells.

By mid-morning, my head was aching and my eyes bolting from my head. The early frost had melted, leaving the roadway wet and slippery beneath the overhanging eaves. My pack was weighing heavily on my back as I dodged the offal and garbage of the streets. My initial excitement had begun to wane, and remembering suddenly that it was St Faith’s Day, I decided to go to Mass. I had already passed so many churches that choosing one was not a problem, but I wanted particularly to see St Paul’s. Even country bumpkins like myself knew its name and reputation. A friendly shopkeeper directed me towards the Lud Gate and at the top of the hill I found it, its huge steeple thrusting into the air, crowned by a golden weathercock.

I don’t know what I had expected. A holy calm, a sanctified hush, perhaps. I was certainly unprepared for what I actually discovered. By the great cross, in the northeast corner of the churchyard, instead of a priest giving godly exhortations, a man in a stained leather tunic and scuffed felt boots was holding forth, well away on some political hobby-horse of his own. The cloisters were lull of people walking up and down, and it did not take me long to figure out that the bulk of them were lawyers, either touting for business or discussing cases with their clients. Inside, in the nave itself, there were more of them, together with stalls selling food and drink to the pilgrims, who, like me, had come to St Paul’s to see its many holy relics: an arm of St Mellitus, a crystal phial of the Virgin’s milk, a strand of St Mary Magdalene’s hair, and the knife Jesus used for carving when he was a boy. There were others, but I did not wait to see them. The noise and confusion here was as bad as in the streets, and I pushed my way outside again.

As I emerged from the churchyard, I saw that people were being forced to one side by a mounted sergeant-at- arms, who was clearing a pathway for a procession of horsemen just entering through the Lud Gate. The sergeant was wearing the insignia of the White Boar, and I realized then that the young man at the head of the group of riders must be Richard, Duke of Gloucester, the King’s younger brother.

‘You and the lord Richard were born on the very same day,’ my mother used to say to me when I was small; although how she came by so exact a piece of information she would never divulge. However, I accepted that we were of an age, although that was all we had in common. In every other respect, our lives had been widely divergent. Richard of Gloucester had been Admiral of England, Ireland and Aquitaine, had levied and commanded troops for his brother throughout the entire South-West, and been the King’s trusted lieutenant all by the age of eleven. In the eight years since, he had grown spiritually and politically in stature, remaining, unlike George of Clarence, totally loyal to his elder brother throughout all the vicissitudes of Edward’s troubled reign. Today, he was not only Admiral but also Constable of England, Warden of the West Marches towards Scotland, Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent, and Great Chamberlain of the realm. He had only recently returned from the North, where he had successfully subdued the last flicker of rebellion against Edward’s resumption of the crown. I was a failed monk and a humble chapman. What greater contrast could there have been?

Because of my height, I had a good view of the little procession over the heads of the other onlookers. The Duke was not at all what I had imagined him to be. I don’t really know what I had expected; someone big and blond perhaps, like his brothers, who had once or twice been described to me; certainly not this slight, almost boyish figure, the serious face partially concealed by a curtain of dark, swinging hair. The hysterical adulation of the crowd, cheering wildly and throwing their greasy hats in the air, was sufficient to turn the head of a much older person, but this slim young man of just nineteen showed no signs of any self-congratulation. Rather, he seemed uncomfortable and ill-at-ease, anxious to be free of the clamour. Surly, I thought; then was immediately forced to revise my opinion as the saturnine face lifted into a smile of recognition for someone near at hand. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and although the expression was fleeting, its beauty had revealed a different man. As the cavalcade moved on and the crowd dispersed, I made a guess that the Duke of Gloucester was not happy in London.

I realized that my earlier fatigue had deepened. I was not only hungry, but feeling dirty and badly in need of a wash. I made inquiries from a messenger boy, resplendent in the gold and green uniform of his master’s livery, who directed me to one of the city’s public wash-houses, where, for the payment of a groat, I could immerse myself in a tub of steaming water. I was fortunate, on reaching my destination, to find that it was one of the hours reserved for men. Mixed bathing was naturally not allowed, although I learned that this was not the case everywhere in Europe. A small, heavily pock-marked man in the tub next to mine, who was vigorously scrubbing his back with a long-handled brush, asked in a throaty whisper: ‘You ever been to Bruges?’