Edward Marston - The Bawdy Basket

‘Yet you married her without the slightest fear.’

Firethorn’s face darkened. ‘Fear came soon afterwards, I assure you.’

‘That will not be the case with me.’

‘Stop him, Lawrence,’ cried Gill, puce with anger. ‘He must not be allowed to break his contract like this, especially for some simpering dame with a pretty face. Does she know the havoc she is creating? My whole career is at stake here. I rely on Edmund to tailor roles to my particular needs. I’ll not have him whisked away from me.’

‘No more will I,’ asserted Firethorn. ‘However many lawyers it takes, we’ll hold you to your contract. Be warned, Edmund. Defy us and we’ll take you to court.’

‘Proceed, then, if you must,’ said Hoode.

‘You’ll not only lose the case, you’ll be faced with a crippling fine that you cannot afford to pay.’ He wagged a finger in Hoode’s face. ‘Do you wish to invite financial ruin?’

‘That will not occur,’ said Hoode blithely. ‘Avice is a wealthy woman. She has promised to meet any costs that are incurred. Regardless of your protests, we mean to be together soon.’

‘Sharing a cell in Bedlam,’ sneered Gill.

‘Tasting a love and freedom I have never known, Barnaby. Scoff, if you will,’ he went on as both men sniggered, ‘but I am resolved. Avice, too, is resolute. If it is the only way to secure Edmund Hoode, she is prepared to buy the Queen’s Head outright.’ He grinned inanely at them. ‘Now, do you see what a paragon among women I have found?’

Bartholomew Fair was an annual event, held on the broad acres of Smithfield, and mixing commerce with entertainment so skilfully that visitors came flocking from far afield. It had been founded almost five hundred years earlier by Rahere, jester to King Henry I. The story went that Rahere had been taken ill during a pilgrimage to Rome, reflected on the errors of his ways and became determined to amend his character. Accordingly, he founded a priory and hospice dedicated to St Bartholomew. The fair that was held for three days from the eve of St Bartholomew’s Day, late in August, was the greatest cloth fair in England. Even when he became Prior, the reformed jester, Rahere, still acted as Lord of the Fair and frequently performed his juggling tricks for the amusement of the crowd. The influence of the Church over the event had long since declined but the spirit of Rahere survived. Jugglers, dancers, clowns, acrobats, puppeteers, wrestlers, strong men, freaks and performing bears were just as much a part of the fair as the hundreds of stall holders who came to sell their wares.

Though there were still two days to go, some of the participants had already started to converge on London and a number of booths were being erected. Among the early arrivals was Moll Comfrey, a pert young peddler whose large basket was filled to the brim with pins, needles, combs, brushes, assorted trinkets and rolls of material of every kind and colour. Hanging from the basket were sundry ballads and pinned to her skirt were dozens of other bits of material that could be used to patch clothing. Her frail appearance belied her robust health. Moll walked long distances between fairs and markets, in all weathers, and carried her heavy basket with practised ease. Her occupation had given her a strength and tenacity that were not visible. What people saw on first acquaintance was a pretty girl of no more than seventeen or eighteen years with fair curls poking out from beneath her bonnet. There was an air of battered innocence about her that made her stand out in a crowd.

Moll was talking to one of the stall holders when a voice rang out behind her.

‘Is that you, Moll?’ asked the man.

‘Lightfoot!’ she exclaimed with a laugh, as she turned to see the figure who was somersaulting towards her over the grass. He came to a halt in front of her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I was hoping to find you here today.’

‘We’ve found each other.’

‘You look wondrous well.’

‘I keep myself in fine fettle,’ he said. ‘Watch!’

Lightfoot did a series of cartwheels that took him in a complete circle. When he bounced upright again, he was standing directly in front of his friend. The acrobat was a cheerful man in his late twenties, slim, short and lithe. Gaudily dressed in a red doublet that sprouted a small forest of blue and yellow ribbons, he wore bright green hose that showed off the neat proportions of his legs. During his energetic display, his pink cap with its white feather somehow stayed on his head. Lightfoot had an ugly face that became instantly more appealing when he smiled.

‘Look!’ he said, pointing to the carts that were trundling towards them. ‘Three more booths to be set up. Half the fair will be up before tomorrow morning. When did you reach London?’

‘Within the hour.’

‘Thank heaven you did not come yesterday.’

‘Why?’

‘Smithfield was not a happy place to be, Moll.’

‘Not happy?’

‘Public executions were held here. A man and a woman.’

‘Then I am glad I came no earlier,’ she said with a shudder. ‘But I thought they hanged murderers at Tyburn now. I saw three dangling from the gallows when I was last in the city. The sight turned my stomach for days.’

‘Had you been here yesterday, you’d not have eaten for a week. They burnt a witch over there,’ he said, indicating the spot with an outstretched hand. ‘You can still see the ash. They tell me that people danced around the blaze for hours.’

Moll grimaced. ‘I wish you’d not told me that, Lightfoot.’

‘The woman is dead now.’

‘Yes, but her curse will remain. I felt something strange when I first stepped upon this grass,’ she said, eyes darting nervously. ‘It was like a cold wind yet the day is hot and sunny. I think it was an omen, Lightfoot. That witch has put a spell on the place.’

‘These are childish thoughts,’ he said amiably, patting her on the arm. ‘Bartholomew Fair is at hand. Three days of riot and enjoyment lie ahead. The Devil himself could not spoil our fair, let alone a dead witch.’

‘I hope that it is so.’

‘It is so, Moll. Come, let’s find a place to eat.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, brightening at once. ‘I am so glad to see you again.’

‘Then let me carry your basket for you.’

She dropped a mock curtsey. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

They fell in beside each other and set off. Moll was delighted to meet Lightfoot so soon. He was more than simply a friend. Travelling the highway for a living exposed her to all manner of dangers and Lightfoot had rescued her on more than one occasion. Whenever she was with him, she felt safe. He was a clever acrobat. Though she had seen his tricks many times, Moll never tired of watching them. Lightfoot had another virtue. He picked up news faster than anyone else she knew. If they arrived at a new fair, he would always have the latest tidings to report.

‘What was the woman’s name?’ she asked. ‘This witch that they burnt.’

‘Jane Gullet.’

‘And you say a man died with her?’

‘A murderer, hanged for his crime.’

‘Who was his victim?’

‘One Vincent Webbe, stabbed cruelly to death.’

‘Then the killer deserved to hang,’ she said. ‘What was his name?’

‘You are so full of questions today, Moll,’ he said with a laugh.

‘Only because I know that you will have the answers.’

‘It will cost you a kiss to hear the man’s name.’

‘Most men pay for my kisses.’

‘I pay with information.’

She giggled and nodded. ‘As you wish.’

‘Then first, my kiss.’

‘That must wait, Lightfoot. I want a name before you claim your reward.’

‘So be it. His name was Gerard Quilter.’