London (105 page)

“And now, Julius, I want you to learn one very important lesson from this chest.” Julius listened obediently. “Consider,” Sir Jacob continued, “if this treasure belonged to the king, would I guard it with my life?”

“Of course, father.”

“But it was entrusted to me by a pirate who deserves, I expect, to be hanged. Should I look after it therefore?” The boy hesitated. “Yes Julius,” his father admonished. “And why?” He paused solemnly. “Because I gave my word. And your word must be sacred, Julius. Never forget.”

And Julius never did.

Secretly, though, he wondered what had become of the pirate.

1613

At the end of June 1613 two wonders occurred: first, the Globe Theatre burned to the ground. It happened during a performance of Shakespeare’s
Henry VIII
: a cannon let off on stage sent sparks into the thatched roof and set the whole theatre on fire. Cuthbert, who had kept his word and not seen a play in two years, looked sad; but, seeing this was clearly a judgment from God, Martha felt a lightening of the heart.

And secondly, Martha married. Poor John Dogget, Cuthbert’s friend with the boatyard, had suddenly lost his wife. With five young children, the fellow was distracted. “He needs a wife,” Cuthbert told her; “a Christian woman to look after those children.” Hardly knowing what to think, she had agreed to meet the family and found Dogget a hard-working, good-hearted fellow, but overwhelmed with cares, and his children living in disorder. “They love one another, but they scarcely know the scriptures,” she remarked to Cuthbert. “You could save them. It would be a Christian duty,” he urged. And, touched that he should be so thoughtful of others, she agreed, if Dogget wished, to consider it.

For several days she had hesitated. Southwark held no appeal for her; but she could not deny that the Doggets’ need was great, and so, putting her own desires quietly aside, she went to see the boatbuilder.

“You must teach me how to be a wife,” she said sweetly, and, for the first time she saw him smile.

“I will,” he promised gratefully.

“There will have to be some changes,” she gently suggested.

“Of course,” the harassed father replied. “Anything you want.”

1615

Early one afternoon, in October 1615, two men prepared for an encounter. Neither man wished to meet the other. One was Sir Jacob Ducket. The man who came to meet him, aged about forty and wearing a dark robe and little white ruff, was in holy orders. Yet there was a certain elegance about him. When he reached the gateway to Sir Jacob’s house he paused. Then he sighed and went in.

Edmund Meredith was past his best. Fifteen years of his life had elapsed since the disaster of his play; but what had he to show for them? Three more plays that no one would put on. It was all the more galling because the theatre was more fashionable than ever. King James himself had become patron of the players at the Globe, which had been splendidly rebuilt after the fire. Instead of retiring, Shakespeare had gone from strength to strength. And when he had once complained to the Burbages that Shakespeare had stolen his blackamoor idea for his own
Othello
, they had cruelly reminded him: “There have been a dozen
Macbeths
too, but Shakespeare’s is the one people want to see.” He still frequented the theatre, but had fewer friends there now; even the Flemings had grown distant. And yet, it was thanks to the Flemings that he had acquired what little fame he had. Or rather, thanks to Jane.

What had become of her? Even her parents had decided she must have been murdered, but some instinct told him she was alive; and because her disappearance coincided in his mind with Black Barnikel’s visit, Meredith was the source of the rumour of her kidnap which still vaguely lingered on.

Her real importance though, was for his own reputation. Perhaps he had not much else to think about; or perhaps it began when a fashionable lady (as she always did when she had run out of conversation) remarked, “I believe, Master Meredith, you have some secret sorrow, a lady no doubt”; but within two years of Jane’s disappearance, he had begun to grow melancholic at the thought of her, kept her memory about him as a lover keeps a painted miniature, and acquired a reputation as a gallant wit who had lost a great love. He composed some clever yet passionate verses that were widely circulated. The best known began:

Since she I loved was taken away.

Its success had led directly to three brief but fashionably flattering affairs.

But it was no good. As the years passed, there was a new, mercenary hardness about the court. His Elizabethan gallantry was not enough. Women were becoming impatient with him.

“If only Jane had been at my side,” he would sometimes sigh. “Who knows what I might have achieved.” Indeed, he had taken to thinking of marriage lately. “But I haven’t the income.” He did not know what to do with himself. And so he had taken holy orders.

This was not as strange as it seemed. Though the Church was not a normal career for a gentleman, several fashionable men, disappointed at court or tiring of the world, had entered it recently; and it was one of these in particular, who had impressed him.

No one could deny that John Donne had made a figure in the world. A gentleman by birth, with a family connected to the great Sir Thomas More, his brilliant poetry and love affairs made him a gallant after Meredith’s heart, and the two had often met in London. Donne had also become a favourite of the king; but, probably wisely, King James had said he would only help Donne if he took orders. Donne was eager, therefore, to see others follow where he had been forced.

“You could go far,” Donne said, “if you can preach a good sermon.” Not only go far, but acquire an audience, even a fashionable one: Edmund pondered this advice, and saw an inviting prospect. It was almost like the theatre.

“I think,” he concluded after a week or two, “that perhaps I feel the call.” And so he was ordained.

Next, he had to find a living. Here again, Donne offered to help.

“There is one parish vacant. I have spoken to the king, who has spoken to the Bishop of London. You have only to recommend yourself to the vestrymen and, so long as they like you, the living will be yours.” He had smiled encouragingly. “You’ll hardly find a better position. The leading vestryman is a large shareholder in the Virginia Company. So good luck.”

There was only one problem. The vestryman in question was Sir Jacob Ducket.

Julius watched curiously as Meredith nervously entered the big panelled parlour where the vestrymen sat. His father, thinking it would be good training, had allowed him to stay and observe this exercise of the family’s responsibilities.

The old medieval order of London, like the city itself, still preserved its ancient shape. Under their chosen mayor, the aldermen still ruled, one for each of the two dozen wards. Each ward had its own council; and below that, each parish its vestry of the principal parishioners – who effectively chose themselves – and who were responsible for the good order and welfare of their community. They also, in this parish, were accustomed to give the Bishop of London their views upon who should be their vicar. Privately, given his Calvinist leanings, Sir Jacob would have dispensed with the bishop entirely. But since the king wanted bishops, and he was loyal to the king, he considered this the end of the matter. The vestry of St Lawrence Silversleeves consisted of just three men: Sir Jacob, alderman; a draper who was on the ward council; and an elderly gentleman who, very obligingly, had not spoken in three years.

The parish might be small but, thanks to a new endowment given by Silver Ducket fifty years before, it was now a rich little living, not to be bestowed lightly. It was only because of the request of the bishop and a word from the court that Sir Jacob was seeing Meredith, of whom he strongly disapproved; and it was his intention to make short work of him. Dispensing with all courtesies therefore, as soon as Edmund was standing before them, he began:

“Are you still writing plays, Master Meredith?”

“No, Sir Jacob. Not for many years.”

“Verse?”

“Some religious meditations. For myself only.”

“But no doubt,” Sir Jacob’s smile was so terse that it might have been a bite, “you keep a mistress.”

“No, Sir Jacob.” Edmund by now was pale.

“Come, sir,” Ducket snapped, “we know what kind of man you are.”

“You mistake me,” Edmund protested, shaking a little.

“Oh. What, then, has led you to take holy orders?”

Now, thoroughly rattled at seeing his only chance of preferment slipping through his fingers like mercury, Edmund, casting about desperately for something to say, accidentally blurted out the truth: “Because I saw no other way to turn.”

It was one of those rare occasions when the truth sounded better than it really was.

From the gentleman on Sir Jacob’s right there came a faint and unexpected murmur: “Repentance.” The draper, also, was nodding approval. Ducket saw that he had gone too far. He collected himself.

“The question we ask,” he said more mildly, but with a quick, admonishing look at his colleagues, “is whether this reformation is sincere.”

But Meredith had had a chance to collect himself too. Pausing for a moment, therefore, to look down thoughtfully at the floor, he then raised his head and, gazing soberly at the three men, addressed them very quietly.

“My grandfather, Sir Jacob, was a gentleman at the court of King Henry. My father followed him; and I have never heard it said that my condition was other than gentle too. Even if my word will not suffice you, therefore, I ask you plainly, upon what possible grounds would I take holy orders if not from conviction?”

It was perfect. It was unanswerable. Gently chiding the alderman for calling him a knave, Meredith had put down an ace. For why else, indeed, would any fashionable gentleman choose so humble an occupation? It would have made no sense. Realizing he had played his hand badly, Sir Jacob hesitated. And it was just then, in the little pause which followed, that Julius spoke.

Innocently he asked, from his stool by the fireplace: “Is it true, sir, that the king himself has spoken for you?”

There was silence; then Edmund, as surprised as anyone at the intervention, turned to the boy and, with a most charming and entirely natural smile, replied:

“I rather think he has.”

It was over. The draper and the old gentleman were beaming. Sir Jacob was beaten and wise enough to know it at once. Could he really now refuse this courteous penitent supported by the king to whom he himself had sworn undying loyalty? “It seems, Master Meredith,” he remarked with the best grace he could, “that you have won us over. But do not forget,” he added, as the other two nodded firmly, “that we expect a good sermon.”

And, having saved his skin, Edmund was left to reflect that, quite possibly for the rest of his life, he must preach, each Sunday, to Sir Jacob, and that his only real friend was a twelve-year-old boy.

If only, he told himself, Jane had not departed . . .

The Mercers Hall was crowded and buzzing with excitement the following spring. Young Julius, brought there by his father, looked about eagerly. It was to be the first public appearance of the new sensation. Outside in Cheapside a great throng had gathered, hoping to catch a glimpse – and no wonder. Few Londoners had ever seen such a thing before.

The buzz rose. A man had entered at the far end of the hall: solid and handsome, he looked like a provincial merchant. “Rolfe,” his father whispered. But immediately afterwards the whole hall fell silent as she entered.

Julius felt a flash of disappointment. She was not at all what he expected.

She was dressed almost like a boy, in a velvet tunic with a big lace collar and cuffs, and wore a plain hat with a stiff brim, from which her dark hair hung in ringlets. In her hand she carried a fan made of ostrich feathers. She walked very upright, taking small steps. And except for the tawny brown skin of her face, which had in any case been touched with rouge, you would never have known she was Indian at all. Her name was Pocahontas.

At least, that is the name of her tribe in Virginia, by which history has chosen to call her. Amongst her own people she was known as Mataoka. When she was baptized a Christian, she acquired the name Rebecca; and since she was truly an Indian princess, the Londoners called her the Lady Rebecca. Indeed, King James himself, so mindful was he of royal status, had expressed some doubt that a princess, even of wild savages, should have married a mere commoner from England. The Indian princess who befriended the settlers had married Captain Rolfe just three years before, and strictly speaking, therefore, it was a plain Mrs Rolfe who was now the first American to visit England.

All London had now heard the romantic story of how, when Captain Smith of Jamestown had been captured by her tribe and almost executed by having his brains dashed out, this Indian girl, only a child, had offered her own head to save his life. There had been no romance with Smith; she was too young. But the ensuing friendship with the settlers had led her to Rolfe, and to be welcomed in England as a heroine.

But she hardly looked like one to Julius. As she moved round the room, speaking a few words here and there, it was hard to tell if her quiet grace were shy or haughty. The organizers were determined that everyone important should get a look at her, but suddenly, bored by the merchants, she came straight towards Julius. A moment later he found a tiny hand outstretched and a pair of almond-shaped brown eyes staring at him with a directness he had never encountered before.

She was smaller, younger-looking than he had realized. He knew she was over twenty, yet she could have been fifteen. And, very aware of the soft down just appearing for the first time on his own upper lip, he blushed. At which the Indian princess burst out laughing, and moved on.

Apart from meeting Julius, the rest of her appearance was as carefully stage-managed as a play. Having completed her tour of the room she was led out, followed by all the company. Outside in the street a platoon of servants, wearing the Mercers’ livery, raised her on an open chair, carried on their shoulders so that the crowd could see her, and started to progress westwards along Cheapside, while she waved to them, looking very much the princess. By the time she passed St Mary-le-Bow more than five hundred people were following. And then suddenly she was gone: the chair abruptly lowered, she stepped into the waiting closed carriage at the corner of Honey Lane, the carriage rattled away and a second later vanished up Milk Street. It was so neatly done that the attention of the crowd was left, as it were, in midair, looking for something to which to attach itself. Exactly on cue, a carrying but mellifluous voice was heard from a platform in front of St Mary-le-Bow, causing the crowd to turn. “Behold, the handmaid of the Lord! Today, dearly beloved, we have seen a sign.”