P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

At noon the town crier made the announcement at the Market Cross that his lordship, Henry Lord Scrope, quondam Warden of this March, would be buried on Sunday and not the next day which caused Young Hutchin to blink and raise his eyebrows.

“He’s lying in state at the cathedral,” explained Young Hutchin slowly and carefully so Barnabus could understand him, “so anybody that wants can be sure the old bugger’s dead as a doorpost and not as sweet.”

“Not much liked hereabouts, eh?” asked Barnabus, munching on a flat pennyloaf (referred to by Hutchin as a stottiecake) with salt herring in it, since it was a fishday. Young Hutchin grinned and shook his head, but didn’t add any information.

“Well,” Barnabus patted his belly as he finished, “Now what shall we do?”

“I could show you round about the town, Mr Cooke,” said Young Hutchin, “so ye can find your way.”

“Lead on.”

No one who knew his way around London town could be in the least confused by Carlisle which was barely a village by comparison. They wandered down Castle Street and looked at the cathedral, which was in a little better condition than St Paul’s and examined what was left of the abbey. English Street was where the best shops were and Barnabus had been there before to buy paper and ink for his master with Richard Bell and also to visit the goldsmith’s. Young Hutchin’s eyes shone as he peered through the thick bars of the goldsmith’s grill and counted the rather poor silver plate and gold jewellery displayed there. Barnabus wondered if the goldsmith also dealt in receiving stolen goods, as some of his London colleagues did, but Young Hutchin when asked, explained virtuously that he knew nothing of such sinfulness.

They examined the glowering two towers of the citadel, with their cannon, defending the road called Botchergate which led to Newcastle and ultimately to London. Then they retraced their steps and bore right up Scotch Street which was a poorer place altogether, though well-supplied with ale houses, horse dealers and smiths.

All about them flowed the townsfolk, greatly thinned in their numbers by the men who had gone out to work the fields round about. The women kept many of the shops, particularly the fish and butcher’s shops, and some of the fish they were selling actually looked and smelled quite fresh. Barnabus remembered they were only a few miles from Solway and no doubt there were fishermen who went out to harvest the Irish sea. Perhaps Wednesdays and Fridays would not be such a trial here as they were in London, where the trotting trains from Tilbury and East Anglia could not bring in the fish any quicker than two days old.

They were passing by a wynd with the strong smell of herring saltworks coming from it when Barnabus said to Young Hutchin, “Where would I go to…er…find a woman?”

Young Hutchin grinned cynically. “Depends on the woman, master,” he said. “What kind of woman was ye thinking of?”

Barnabus coughed. Well, Devil take it, he’d just been paid and what else was there to spend his money on? There was no bear or bull-baiting in this backwater and there certainly wasn’t a theatre. “I was thinking of a…helpful sort of woman,” he said. “The kind that might take pity on a poor southerner far from home.”

Young Hutchin nodded in perfect comprehension. “Ay, well there’s two bawdy houses, ye ken, but neither of them have lassies that are much in the way of beauty if ye’re used to London ways…”

“Are they poxed?” asked Barnabus.

Young Hutchin raised his eyebrows and for a second he looked astonishingly like Carey, who could be no relation.

“Now, master, how would I know such a thing, being only a poor lad meself.”

“You might have heard where the nearest of them is, so I can go and inspect them myself,” said Barnabus, gravely.

“Nay, master, I’m too innocent for…”

Barnabus sighed and produced a groat. “I could likely find the place myself,” he said, “or ask someone else?”

Young Hutchin took the groat smoothly and led the way down the nearest wynd.

Barnabus liked the boy’s technique. For instance, he was perfectly well aware that he was being led on a deliberately twisting and complex route so he would have difficulty finding the place again and that Young Hutchin had tipped the wink to one of the lads sitting in the street minding his family’s pigs that he was bringing in custom. He didn’t mind in the least, it made him feel nicely at home, though every time he looked up he saw a nasty unsmoky sky and almost every wynd off Scotch Street eventually ended in red brick wall.

Down one of the culs-de-sac they came on a brightly painted house with red lattices, a painted wooden sign of a rainbow and a girl sitting on the step. She stood up and smiled at him, leaned over so her large breasts could press enticingly over the top of her stays, and in a reek of cheap perfume, said, “Can I help you, sir?”

His breath coming short, on account of being away from the stews of Southwark for so long, Barnabus nodded. To Young Hutchin he said, “You stay here, my son, we wouldn’t want your innocence being corrupted, would we?”

“What, wait here in the street?” asked Young Hutchin with dismay.

“Tch. You’re far too young to go into a place like that,” said Barnabus gravely, perfectly well aware that Young Hutchin might even lodge there when he wasn’t in the castle, being the age he was, even if he might not be able to do much about it yet. On the other hand, Barnabus as a sturdy lad of thirteen had many fond memories of the Falcon in Southwark and in particular of a girl called Mary. Perhaps he sold his…No, he didn’t look the type and in any case Barnabus doubted that the more sophisticated London perversions had got this far north. Anyway, it was the principle of the thing.

“I’d never shirk my responsibilities to you, my son,” he added preachily, “and you’re not getting corrupted on my money today. Besides, if you stay outside and give me a list of everyone who comes in and goes out while I’m there, you could earn yourself enough for two women in the one bed.”

That caused Young Hutchin to brighten considerably and he settled down on the step as Barnabus went in. He was met by a grey-haired woman of formidable expression, dressed in a tawny velvet kirtle with a damask forepart and embroidery on her stomacher, her hair covered by a cap and a long-crowned hat in the Scottish fashion, with a pheasant’s feather. Her ruff was edged with lace and starched with yellow starch and altogether she was as magnificent a woman as complete flouting of the sumptuary laws could make her. London work, as well, Barnabus estimated, his eyes narrowing, it seemed Hutchin had brought him to the most expensive place in town. No matter. Barnabus regarded money invested on good whores as money well-spent. No doubt the Scots went to the other bawdy house, wherever that was, since he could hear none of their accents which he was just beginning to be able to tell from an English Borders accent.

“Welcome to this house,” said the woman in a clear southern voice, somewhere in London, Barnabus judged in surprise. “How may I serve you, sir?”

The common room where the whores paraded was nicely floored with fresh rushes and had a fireplace, though no fire since the weather had turned warm and muggy. There was a man there, no doubt acting as security against anyone who tried to leave without paying, a young, clever-faced man, with a weather-beaten face, black ringlets and long fingers. There was something familiar about him but Barnabus couldn’t place the resemblance. He was throwing dice idly and Barnabus watched how he scooped up the ivories and tossed them and hid a smile to himself. It seemed coney-catchers were another universal thing. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes.